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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 . 

Chapter Text

It was a way to express your immense grief borne of even bigger love. Your home-moon Luelle-2 was a moon just smaller than Earths in orbit of an inhospitable gas giant bigger than Jupiter. The moon was a light lavender blue from its shallow seas, and its few land masses were tinted green with spots of peachy deserts and icy mountain tops.

You loved it more than life. 

Its beauty was only challenged by the planet's immense gravity well, treacherous rings, and hundreds of swooping barren moons.This gave your home-moon full of remote creatives a false sense of security. Surely, you all had been too far out of the way, too isolated, too dangerous to get to for the covenant to glass.

At least that's what the moon’s A.I, Laurel said. 

She was wrong. 

Later on the Pillar of Spring, the AI Primavera tries to cheer you up after picking you from Laurel’s refugee ship. You played forlornly with Laurel’s chip. She had held on through her rampancy to evacuate you all, but the strain of fighting did the civilian A.I. in. 

Your family moved on, you joined the engineering corps because you couldn’t stand the thought of settling down somewhere not home.

It was against the rules at first. Little carvings learned from the moon’s dead woodcarvers. Small, bubbling fountains down in the boiler room learned from the tradesmen. Paintings done by mixing excess and off-color pigments, and occasionally going down to the surface to collect plants to grind into pigment. 

Primavera encouraged this. 

She helped you into areas you shouldn’t have been and you question this.

Her lovely lavender avatar smiles. It reminds you of home so much you start to cry.

“I can feel the electrical heartbeat of every soul onboard. I love you all and as my rampancy closes in I want to leave something beautiful behind. Please let me help you create something beautiful.”

You help to install more cameras for her, opt-in ones so it won’t speed up her rampancy. You fill the ship with color. Murals, waterfalls, mosaics, when you aren’t fixing up equipment. You braid hair, paint nails, and while very few people have their own clothes-most are military mass produced-you embroidered, typically bandanas or headbands. You miss your Luelle skirts, most people here have never worn one. 

Rampancy has it’s consequences. 

The ship goes down and you are again a refugee. You sneak through hide-aways you fixed countless times into the evacuated control room to take Primavera’s empty chip with you to the infinity. 

Roland is nice but he is not Primavera.

He catches you as you crawl through an access panel, too small for the height cut-off of the soldiers at 5’7, as you draw the image of Primavera.

“You know, this isn’t authorized no matter how pretty.” Rolan tsks. 

“That's what the other A.I. said. I miss her.”

This startles him.

“She was a person to me. Do people on this ship miss the old A.I. too?” You say sympathetically. It would have been hard for Roland to settle into the Infinity, but perhaps its fascinating alien upgrades made the shift easier. You yourself had been allowed to help with the upgrades.

“...Yes they do, but I grew on them! Like a fungus some might say.” 

You laugh and ask him what he’d like for you to paint for him. It’s an early plane. Roland and you are now friends and he uses you to help him find blind spots and install the cameras you had for Primavera. 

Rats keep scaring you and chewing through the wires so a tireless campaign nets you two cats from your Auntie’s new homestead. You love them with all your heart, and partly make their collars from the two A.I. Chips. 

You begin creating in earnest.

Stars in a morse-code pattern there. Etched carvings in braille that continue the code. Even a few hand-signs that were a pain to draw. The code once cracked will be the preamble to Luelle’s constitution. A few other paintings have secret jokes and easter eggs.

One day you feel the vibrations rather than hear the three Spartans coming. All female

You shove everything into your bag and leave, Roland cackling impishly in your ear. 

“Kelly, can you get there in time?” A female spartan asks. The hallways down this deep aren’t good for full-on sprints but the painting you were working on is across the cluttered hanger bay. 

“Only if you can see them with your scope, Linda.” 

The third one pauses. 

She stares long and hard at your paintings. Her hands taps out in morse code the patterns in the stars of your paint, what the constellations looked like on your home moon. Despite the ferocity in the three of them to track you down, it’s more determined than hostile. This Spartan specifically seems to be… enjoying your art.

Your heart stutters.

It’s nice to be appreciated. And you hadn’t known Spartans to be art connoisseurs.

“No dice. They’re gone.”

“Damn.” Kelly grunts. The two other women stalk around like tigers while you shuffle up the vent like a spider. 

“Lets go, Kai.” 

The Spartan-Kai, takes her hand away from your painting, achingly careful not to disturb the fresh colors, and with one last lingering look through her helmet, she follows the other two.

It's humanizing to hear their names. They’ve all been acting more human somehow these last few months since the accident. 

“They’ve been hunting for the bandit artist for months now.” Roland chuckles. “They’re so obsessed with getting to the bottom of the mystery that we’ve saved thousands in shooting equipment.”

“Really.” You deadpan. You’d be worried about the Spartan hearing but the engineering bays are soundproofed.

“All I told them was that your activities were above board! They have no clue who you are! It’s excellent training, and honestly? Very good for them to see.” 

“The Spartans have been behaving differently these past few months.” You remark offhandedly. Ever since the Chief got hurt in that Accident. 

Roland says nothing, which is significant itself.

You go see your fellow civvie friend. She's up in medical and had made sure you were up to date on your vaccines and occasionally gives you free massages and teaches you a bit even in exchange for you tuning up her equipment and baking her cookies. 

“Doctor Halsey’s all up in a twist about something.” Maybell whispers as she turns you to putty in her hands.

You sigh happily. Your neck feels so much better. She takes that as a sign to continue.

“Something about the chief.” She says even quieter, eyes darting around as if Halsey would jump out at her. Maybell whispers to you hints of the Spartan augmentations and it makes you frown. The Spartans would have had to been pre-pubescents for most of that to work. 

You hum in acknowledgement, swearing not to blab about this. 

When you weren’t painting, gossiping with friends, or working on military equipment, you were fixing. The ships were such a focus that other things got pushed to the side, like the cook’s stove and freezers. When you fixed it for them you became friends, and were allowed to sift through the pantry and bake your own goodies and use excess coconut oil for your hair. 

You fixed the UV lights for the underfunded botanists and promised to bring them with seed samples scraped off the bottom of warthogs and earned a free spot to grow your own plants. You respected their work. Some of the seeds they grew were the last remnants of Glassed worlds, such as your own home-moon, Luelle. 

You fixed the plumbing for the forge-masters, and got forge-access and extra shower tickets and the ability to start on some fancy fountains here too. 

You helped fix the electrical for the computer room and the nerds there granted you access to high speed wifi and record keeping. 

Not some bad social engineering.

Currently, you were neck deep in a supply room searching for buried treasure while humming a song. The most recent planet had plants with amazing pigmentation and you wanted to sprout some of the seeds. 

“Hey!” Fernando calls, humming in tune to your song and causing you to blush under your mask. He’s a pilot and a learning engineer, and a refugee too. You’ve taken him under your wing and in return he’s taken you under his, literally, by trying and failing to teach you to fly. “Don’t know what they want from little old you, but apparently the Big Guy himself asked for you!” Fernando squawks.

“Who?”

He flails

“The Master Chief! He’s finally going back out on a mission since the Accident. And he wants you as part of his engineering crew!”

Oh! 

Oh.

You hadn’t actually expected anything from him. He hadn’t known you were the paint-bandit so you assumed he’d put the whole thing behind him. That had been a few days ago. 

Then again, didn’t you tell him you painted as a side hobby? 

Shit!

“R-Right now?”

“Yes!”

“Oh shi- I mean, Might as well? Do you have any idea why?”

Fernando hesitates.

“Spill.” You hiss at him. He’s a bit of a wuss so he does.

“I’ve noticed him hanging around the repair bay more often. Thought it was for, y’know, his Mjolnir but…I-I think it might be because we pulled him out of the wreckage.” 

He’s been different, ever since the Accident a few months ago, where ironically all you engineers had been the ones to save him. It’s what had gotten you noticed enough by your manager Maddison to get your own repair bay-no matter how shitty-as your tweaking of the crane and Fernando’s piloting of it has finally freed the chief from the mountain of debris. 

He had been fine.

Mostly. 

Something about a lower back injury that kept him on ice for awhile, then strictly in his suit for support. Something not even Maybell had been able to gossip to you about. In fact his interactions with you might have been his first outside of the suit. The bedrest status of their leader was probably made the three Spartan women restless to go after your paintings too. 

“So you think this had to do with him getting stuck and injured by the landslide?” You ask. 

“Don’t know, and I don't know why he would wait so long. Do you want me to come with you?” He says seriously and your heart softens. Your friends a bit of a wuss, but he’s your wuss, and can be brave when needed.

“Thank you, but I got this.” 

You run down, securing your engineer's uniform, the thick belt, apron that reminded you of the skirts back home-you had embroidered flowers on the edges small enough to pass safety code-the jacket, your mask, the perpetual hair bandana, and your prescription visor. 

“Rock on arctic explorer!” Fernando laughs and you try and fail to shove the bigger man. It’s not your fault the ship was chilly! The shove turns into a hug, and Fernando swings you in a tight embrace before launching you into the right direction. It reminds you of the casual affection if Luelle. 

“Wash the cats!” You call back. They got covered in rat-blood again.

Roland clues you in on the location. It’s hanger bay 13. 

You wince.

The manager of hanger bay 13 was…she was something. Manager Rothfeller’s mother was a high-ranke-the same one who had chastised the Chief for helping the artists with their recovery efforts-and hanger bay 13th was given to the barely qualified ‘engineer’ because it was lower-stakes reconnaissance to planet-side, and engineering missions.

You turn the corner.

And almost run head first into the Master Chief. 

You skitter to a halt like Penny over the newly waxed floors and nearly topple over. An armored green hand reached out to grab your bicep, easily wrapping around. The grip is firm and steadying.

“Need a hand?” He rumbles lowly, the call back to your first words to him spoken almost teasingly as his visor gleams down into yours. “I don’t want to be a pain in your forehead either.” 

You gawk at him, then laugh.

“Why do you keep having better one-liners than me?” You complain, no heat in your voice.

You notice the other Spartans and Rothfeller watching with extreme interest. The engineers of this bay and you are friends and they wave to you, before jumping and squeaking in embarrassment when it causes a few of the Spartans to turn and look at the sudden motion. They scurry away even as you wave back.

A shame, because you wanted to see what Rico was doing. Maybe torquing the Warthogs again.

The Spartans size you up and it’s almost as intimidating as it was with the Chief. You shuffle a bit and wave at them. You nearly facepalm in a mix of embarrassment and amusement but you're still wearing your welding mask, and the fact that the Spartans actually nod back at you stops you in your tracks. 

You imagine they don’t get waved at often. 

“This is the engineer I want.” Chief says to the group and it sends a thrill through your chest. The Spartans are clearly as interested in you as you are in them. You aren’t shy, but are unused to such attention, especially Rothfeller’s hostile gaze. Chief picks this up and moves to stand in front of you to lead you into the ship. 

“What are her qualifications?” Rothfeller demands. “I see she’s rankless.” Civilians aren’t unheard of on Military vessels. Rescued civvie ships, and civvie expertise needed on things like medical, or engineering in your case. 

“I worked on the Pillar of Spring with Primavera before this, upgrading the ship's infrastructure, I completed college for engineering, I helped upgrade the Infinity, and I was recently given Mjolnir status.” You can answer for yourself and don’t appreciate her talking past you, even if you are a rankless civvie refugee.

The attention from the other Spartans is now intense, and you can swear they seem to approve. 

Rothfeller’s lip curls but she nods sharply at you, unable to do anything else with the Chief breathing down her neck.  You get to work.

Comfortable silences are filled with the occasional question from the Chief. He asks more about the tools you use after he helped you with the handles. Eventually the other Spartans make their way over. 

The few other engineers pause their unloading to gawk, including Rico, and the marines guarding the hangar bay doors salute stiffly, eyes withered awed.

Both make the shoulders of the Chief stiffen almost unnoticeable. It’s a reaction you aren’t sure he would have made before the accident, or maybe one you wouldn’t have noticed. 

“Can you help me secure these handles?” You ask to help him out and return the favor from him shielding you from Rothfeller. 

He agrees and you swear he sounds grateful.

You’re helping him adjust the handles, watching the armored fingers test the grip.

And not crush it!

You congratulated the both of you and held your fist out for a fist bump.

He stares at it.

“A celebratory fist bump?” You hear the grin in your voice. 

His hand moves slowly as if in water and you bite back giggles as you reach out the rest of the way, just in time for the other Spartans to walk in. 

“We ready for take-off?” You ask. 

The Spartan you overheard as Kai nods. It could just be your imagination but some of those painted lines on her Mjolnir look intentionally stylized.  

“You’re the one putting in the handles?” a Spartan asks. His voice is even deeper than the Chief’s.

“Yes sir.” The Spartans seem to reach a consensus after a few seconds and it might just be your imagination but you swear you see some subtle sign language. You’ve heard that they had their own. 

“Thank you.” He says after a moment, and you nod back, heart bubbling with pride. 

“I had help.” You laugh, gesturing towards the Chief. 

“I see.” His tone is dry, and amused at the Chief.

“Have you noticed any suspicious activity in the bowels of the ship?” Spartan Linda asks suddenly. 

“Um, no Ma’am-” you cut yourself off. On the opposite side of the ship, visible only to you from your height in the crawl space of the ship and to the Spartans due to their size, is one of your earliest paintings. You had forgotten about it, and didn’t see it until now because it had faded and because you were distracted by everything happening.

Oh.

Shit. 

It’s yours.

It’s a moment you capture of your Aunt and your Uncle reuniting after thinking the other was dead. It was the first spot of hope you felt after the Glassing and even with faded lines you can feel the immense love and power of the image.

“I see you’ve spotted it. There is no need for removal of the painting.” Her tone is neutral. “You’re down in the repair bays often, do you know who could be making these paintings?”

The Spartans are either looking at the painting or you. The Spartan who thanked you for the handle almost seems to stand protectively in front of it. Kai’s hand twitches like she wants to trace it, and the tilt of the male Spartans' helmet follows the curve of the embrace as they admire it. 

Technically sanitation code dictates unapproved paintings be removed, are they worried you will? 

The Chief’s posture is interested as they all watch you, from your position of the perfect height to do said painting. Your earlier words to the Chief of your hobbies, including painting, comes back to you. 

“Alright, I won’t remove it, and I’ll keep an eye out.” You manage to say and nearly fall over in shock at their slight, but unmistakable relief. “What do you think of all these paintings?” You ask her. 

She seems taken aback for a second. How often is she asked her opinion on art? After a nearly unnoticeable microsecond of shock she seems to consider your question, and you.

“Skilled, and stealthy.” 

“Talented.” Kai chimes in, voice remarkably emotive. You hum thoughtfully, struggling not to kick your feet in happiness. 

“They keep avoiding us.” Kelly grumps and you struggle not to laugh even as a chill goes up your spine at the thought of being on the business end of these ladies.

“I’m sure you’ll get there.” You offer even though you don't want to get caught.

“With you helping us I’m sure we’ll find our mystery artist.” Linda says and your heart flutters at the compliment and specifically the possessive word ‘our’. What did she mean by that? The other Spartans seem to agree.

“They’ve certainly kept us waiting long enough, and we’ve got some questions for them.”

You’re nervous again.

“You do? Are you upset by the paintings?” 

This seems to surprise them as they turn to look at you sharply.

 “No, it's...nice to have something to look at.” The other male Spartan says. The agreement of all the Spartans sends your heart racing. 

“Oh, alright, I’ll keep a lookout then.” You say thoughtfully. 

“What you should be doing is finishing the ship-checks instead of wasting our time.” Rothfeller snips “Or should I?” That would be a disaster considering her qualifications, so you hustle out. The Chief and the Spartans salute stiffly. 

You pause for a second to make sure Rothfeller isn't messing with anything. Suspicion forms in the back of your mind. The ship explosion that had caused the accident had come from hanger bay 13, the one Rothfeller managed.

Could it be...

"I know that scheming face." Rico says half-warily half in concern as she comes up behind you with the check-pad. She angles herself so you're blocking the line of sight of Rothfeller and the Spartans, you don't mind though considering how much Rico helps you. "What are you thinking off? And what are you doing here even? Not that I don't want you, or course!"

It was a good question. You were the only rankless person to run a repair bay on the massive Infinity, no matter how shabby, or how it wasn't actually used for flights anymore. Why be in this one when you could be in yours? 

You watch as Rothfeller postures to look good to the Spartans, barking orders at the scurrying engineers stuttering and stumbling when they walk past the Spartans. 

"Me and Fernando think it might have something too do with us freeing him from the wreckage...Did Rothfeller do the final checks on the ship the Chief used before the accident?" You mutter lowly as the two of you lift.

You can see her pale through her visor.

"Be careful!" She whispers, horrified at the implications. "I-I can't say, most of the files were corrupted in the explosion. Roland's still working on it." 

You hum thoughtfully as you rub her back to calm her down. You can see the slight tilt of the Chief's visor as he watches the motion, and you pretend not to see it. 

The implications here would be enough to get you and Rico mysteriously shoved from the airlock and into the vacuum of space. If you accused Rothfeller of taking on the checking role when others were better suited too, then point out how and implicating information was conveniently corrupted...

Whew.

This could get ugly. 

You'd have to hit up your nerd friends in the computer room to see if you could help de-tangle the data. 

The pilot fires up the ship after you’re done looking over the hull with your other engineer friends helping.

It’s loud. 

You move to cover your ears and nearly jump when the Chief is suddenly at your side. His bulk blocks the worst of the noise from the engine

When you enter the ship it is to your immense surprise the Chief rests a hand on your shoulder-in the exact place yours's had rested on Rico's shoulder-and guides you. You can’t stop thinking about how warm his hand must be, how it’s probably almost healed already due to the Spartan healing factor, but you still wish you could make sure it was okay. It’s so gentle on your shoulder and you must know he feels the weight and strength of his hand in comparison to you.

He leads you towards the spot right under his handle, with the seat your engineering friends adjusted for you.

"You don't have to be here if you don't want to." He says suddenly. "I think you'd do well, but you're under no orders." 

You startle and he moves his hand with the motion, steadying you. You heart swells with affection because he is once again trusting you. 

"Oh! Don't worry about it, It's a learning opportunity." You smile at him behind your mask. You really appreciate him making sure you know you have a choice

“I’ll make sure you’re alright. I won't let anything happen to you. Copy?” He asks you quietly. You take in his body language. He stands curled over you, grasping the handle to form a gentle, protective slope. His visor matched yours, his other hand calmly on his holster. It’s earnest.

“Copy.” You say quietly, and notice how he leans forward ever so slightly in concern, before firming up when the ship begins to move. 

It touches your heart to know people care for you like this. 

 The other Spartans watch from their own handles, and you know for a fact they have a great view of the faded painting.

You squirm a little bit at the idea that these people know you so well through these paintings and didn’t even know 

The Chief tilts himself to offer more security.

Do they even know? How much that moment meant to you? How much all these paintings mean to you, the images you now realize every single Spartan would have spent hours in transit staring at, paintings you thought only you and a few other engineers would see? The guerilla murals were one thing, but these smaller images were pieces of your home, images of places that no longer existed, things you loved or wanted to express. They were a window to your heart. 

The ship takes off.

Chapter Text

When a wave of turbulence hits, you yelp. It’s a little embarrassing as the soldiers cheer and jostle one another, some even putting their hands up like on a roller coaster. For a second you think you’ve gotten away with being unnoticed, until the Master Chief looks pointedly down at you.

“I’m good.” You say, sounding much calmer than you feel. Your face is warm and undoubtedly pink, and this seems to amuse him almost, although it’s hard to tell with the general stoicism and armor. 

“Quiet down, you sound like a bunch of clucking chicken!” Sergeant Johnson barks, almost making you laugh.

“It’d be good to be back on the surface of a planet.” Your soldier friend Blake says wistfully. She had been a survivor from a glassed colony world. It used to be that most UNSC personnel decades ago were from wealthier inner and mid-rim worlds to get the status and power that comes with a intergalactic military, but with the invasion, many of the rank and file were now glassing survivors from exploited outer colony worlds. You wondered how that would have changed the military culture. It strikes you as interesting that many of these people could have been insurgents once upon a time. And not necessarily unjustified rebels either.

The Chief goes to steady you as the ship lands. You crane your neck up at the Master Chief who nods subtly at you.

“Hope I’m not putting another pain in your neck.” He remarks quietly, and it almost makes you forget how Dr. Halsey had the Spartan ll’s ready to go the second the covenant invaded, despite it clearly taking years to make them. Had the UNSC known about the impending invasion? Or were they meant for something else?

But then you remember him saving those outer colony artifacts, and feel guilty for even thinking that of him.

You all land.

You and the other engineers go to check the engine and you notice the Chief’s patrol routes often intersect with the engine section where you're working.

In fact, his patrol routes on the ship over the past two weeks-ever since you helped with his gauntlet-have been going by your bay, by the engineering section in general. 

And even before you helped with his gauntlet. You hadn’t seen anything, but had gotten that distinct prickle at the back of your neck when you felt you were being stalked by the Spartan women. You even faintly felt the heavy and distinct vibrations of armored footsteps-a gait you now recognized as his.

Just how long had he been watching you? Since the crane rescue, when his ship unexpectedly exploded and only you and Fernando had the skills to maneuver it as civilians with degrees?  You don’t feel threatened by the stoic man, for whatever reason. The rare bouts of dry humor help too-it matches yours well.

It’s quite striking to you. You wonder exactly what kind of impression you’ve made on him. You notice the other Spartans sparing you a few extra glances too. After being chased around by Kelly-087 and Linda-058 so often you had developed a sixth sense for being stalked by Spartans. 

It is a trip meant to last for a few days as the marines scout the area. They find natural caves, a few abandoned covenant weapons caches, and some wildlife interesting enough to take contained samples of. 

You yourself take a few vibrant petals, making sure to not have any seeds or vines that might spread invasives, and flash freeze them for later. 

You notice Kai-125 looking. Her armor is the most personalized of the Spartans, with spots and lines of subtle chrome color, and you recall her having dyed hair too.

“I’ll have the biologists check it out to make sure it won’t self-propagate and for poison.” And then you’d paint with it.

You freeze.

Except you were hiding that you were the bandit artist. Kai-125 would have enough of an eye for color to notice the similarities between the plant you’re holding and any future murals you make.

Kai-125 seems to find this exceptionally interesting, attention lingering on you just long enough to be nerve-wracking. 

That night, the Master Chief is doing patrols by your sleeping roll. 

“Why don’t you two bunk under there? It’s safer.” Blake says. The Marines are all rather protection of civilians, when they aren’t ribbing you for being wimps, that is. 

You supposed it’s baked into them.

Much of their training isn’t just focused on killing covvies, but saving as many human lives as possible. You’ve seen this, and read it in their training materials and mandatory coursework. When the Covenant first invaded decades ago, Humanity was in a time of expansion and exploitation, of new planets and its own people and desperately trying to recover it’s population from the plagues. The mass deaths brought by the plagues and then the covenant made every single resource valuable. This included people. Sometimes the Covenant won simply because there weren’t enough civilian workers to grow food or weld ships. Plus, it’s easy to band together when there is a common enemy. This need then to save as many civilian lives as possible was baked into every faucet of UNSC training.

And if it was baked into the regular rank and file, then this would be amplified with the Super Soldier Spartans. 

“Chief! What are you doing over here? I need you-oh, you!” Sergeant Johnson says, spotting you getting ready for the night, combining your sleeping roll with Rico, the only other engineer with you. The Chief had been taking a good, long look at the way you two civilian women were so casual in your affection. Soldiers form a fighting bond to be certain, but affection and trust was a careful thing with so many broken hearts, and such high turnover. Physical affection is often limited by environmental circumstances such as space suits, heavy full body armour, and general decontamination after being on toxic planets and recent plagues. And with the shadowy decisions ONI and the UNSC often make. You recall him copying the way you comforted Rico to comfort you, and your heart goes warm.

And you go warm all over, thinking of if he would copy the way you and Rico curled together.

You’re almost as warm as his hand was in yours. The Spartans seemed to run hotter. 

“I remember you!” The Sergeant continues, making you go still as a deer. “You and that one pilot operated the crane.” He remembered Fernando too. His voice thankfully calms enough that most of the marines can’t hear it over the sound of packing up dinner and getting ready for bed. 

The Spartans can.

You can feel all their eyes land on you, and you give a brisk nod. The large hood of your issued night sweater is up, and a bandana is around your mouth and tucked into the neck of your issued hooded sweater to prevent the ripe smell of sweaty marine from keeping you awake. 

“You’re alright, for a nerd.” He barks out a laugh, and you scurry over to Rico, from where the two of you are sheltered under the engine overhand, the very center of the camp.

The Chief leaves with what you swear is reluctance. 

But it’s hard to tell with a man so stoic.

You must have caught him when his guard was down. Way down, for him to act with any bit of closeness with you. You can still see and hear the man you met down in the repair bay, but it’s clear he’s moving with a strong sense of purpose, detachment on the pedestal he was put on. 

You swear Kai’s gaze linger for a second longer than considered normal as your painted nails hold open the cover for Rico, watching the threaded pattern-you had sewn it yourself-of your bandana move in what you swear is longing.

…

…

…

The next morning, just like Icarus you fly too close to the sun.

Or climb too high up the tree. 

You are reaching up high, climbing a tree to get a spring that had erupted from the engine after a few rowdy marines got into a wrestling match. It had landed at the top of a tree over 50 feet up, in very delicate looking branches.

“Of all the shitty craftsmanship, who the hell managed-”

You cut yourself off.

Rotherfeller did. She managed the ships in that bay. You all had done a quick preparatory once over but the deep-work would have been her. Rico worked there too so you had faith you would all make it back to the infinity in one piece, but this was really too much. Rico hadn’t done the final check on this, Rothfeller Jr. did.

Seems you’d be making your trip to the computer room sooner than you thought. 

As the shortest and therefore lightest, they sent you up. Technically, the Spartans and their jet packs mods could have gotten it done, but they were scouting out an abnormality on the edge of the sensors.

“Nimble as her cats!” Cheers one marine.

“More athletic than she looks!” Says another marine, from worried to impressed. 

“Be careful!” Blake calls. 

Oh, you are, better believe it. 

The branch snaps.

You fall.

For a second the world slows, you feel the rush of wind, and the scent of trees that comes with it. Your stomach drops with gravity, your bandana shifting over your face, visor-glasses taking in the world.

You’re caught.

It’s remarkably soft, considering the armored arms. His hand you helped repair cradles you gently. You’ve never felt safer. 

The Chief bridal carries you to the forest floor and you are so glad for your mask bandana because you know you’re blushing. To think you bragged earlier that you could get the spring no problem. You’re trembling slightly, and distracted by his everything . 

Now you’d have to go all the way back-

“This yours?” A deceptively neutral voice says.

A few seconds until landing, and he hands the spring to you. He must have gotten it while you were admiring his shoulders. He’s smug !

Johnson is right. The Marines squawk excitedly like chickens. Some are even jealous of you. The Chief places you down carefully, hand lingering for a moment like you’d hold it again, before he leaves back on patrol.

…

…

…

You all get back to the Infinity without further incident.

So of course, Rothfeller had to make one. 

“And exactly how did this spring get loose?” Manager Rothfeller sneers. 

You really didn't want to throw the marines under the bus. But it was a good question. The Warthogs in bay 13 should have been fully repaired under Rothfeller. Then again, that ship Chief used that caused the wreckage was supposed to be fully repaired too.

And both had come from this bay.

One of the pieces you removed from him using the crane had 13 etched on it. A piece of debri that conveniently was scrapped before anyone else could see it. Rico is in the corner of your vision, sweating nervously. 

You bite your tongue.

If that piece of incriminating evidence can disappear, so can you. 

One of the wrestling Marines steps forward, looking guilty but then your boss saves you. 

“Ma’am,” Maddison says, the person you report to as a rankless civvie, “That's the exact question I had.”

It gets tense . 

The Chief lumbers up from the ship, clearly hearing everything. It gives you confidence

“A bay manger such as her should have spotted this issue.” Rothfeller says.

“Yes, I’d like to go over your logs with you.” You say neutrally.

Everyone seems to hold their breath at your audacity. A rankless civvie asking this nepotist marine to double check her work for her? You see Rico slump over onto a bench in dismay.

And then hear the faintest snort of amusement from behind you. 

No one else hears it, but everyone sees and feels when the Chief takes a few steps forward. 

“That's enough. Roland can review the logs.” 

Something tells you those logs would be ‘inconclusive’ again. 

…

…

…

You’ve just finished painting a scene of a classic square dance when the spartan women almost catch you.  

Kai, Kelly, and Linda. 

You’re making an effort to think of them without the numbers. 

Kelly had mentioned her interest in the speed of dancing. It made sense as the fastest recorded spartan. You left a little dedication at the bottom with her name. The stillness that descended the hallway when the three women paused to read it took your breath away. 

Kelly had reached out to trace the letters of her name. You had written them in a specific font to hide your handwriting style. The colors are the same as Kai’s currently dyed hair. There is a specific carnivorous flower in the corner you had seen Linda admiring on the planet below. 

All three women notice these details.

You are currently spider-crawling up a vent, bare palms and grippy boots against the otherwise smooth metal giving you a grip, pushing out with enough force to boost yourself up.

Your sweaty palms let out a loud squeak. 

Roland cackles like a Hyena in your ear.

You feel them coming towards you, footsteps giving up stealth as they know they don’t have the element of surprise. They’re trying to rush you. 

They move with terrifying speed and efficiency as you disappear and close the vent behind you. 

They try to send up a drone but Roland activates the sealing for you.

“Dude?” You asks.

“We don’t want them catching you too quickly!” He grins. 

“I could have stopped that myself.” You show the rubber sealant to manually shut the locks. 

“You could have.” He admits. “But you only have so much sealant. And I would make you come back to clean it up which I know you don’t have the time for.”

“Fine! Whatever.” You pant. “What the hell do you mean by not ending too soon?”

Roland smirks.

“The Spartans have been …antsy , as of late. Too much downtime in peacetime.”

You hum in sympathy. They had been made to be weapons. To be challenged. But you can’t help but think it all started with that accident months ago, how the chief had almost died of an accident in his own ship, a place where he was supposed to be safe, after surviving decades of war, nearly dying at the beginning of peace. 

“So I had a talk with Captain Lasky and we decided you’d be allowed to continue because it provides great enrichment for them!”

“Enrichment? Am I the meat-stuffed pumpkin thrown to the lionesses?” You sneer, head spinning at thinking the captain knew you were leaving graffiti all over his ship and was fine with it. 

“Yeah!” Roland laughs. “And moral for the rest of the troops too. With the peace treaty signed, we just think…we need a bit more humanity in this.” Roland amusement fades, becoming thoughtful. 

You decide to turn the tables on him.

“When you ran the scans to figure out why the Pelican we took to the surface, it came back as inconclusive, didn’t it.” 

Roland stops being the jolly little orange guy. 

It nearly gives you whiplash and you realize you need to say something before he thinks you sabotaged it yourself. 

“That ship was an outer-band civilian model that nearly exploded and killed Chief, a personal vessel of a friend of Rothfeller's. You wouldn’t have access to its records until after the dust settled and much of that data would become corrupt. Fernando and I know that specific model due to our civilian backgrounds with tech like that. Not all of its schematics got digitized for AI’s to access because of the initial distrust decades ago that led to the rebellion, the one that sputtered out when the invasion started. The rebels knew if AI’s had access to their new ship model data they could get information on the rebels. I’m saying when you did your initial sweep of the ship someone knew that weakness of yours and hid the ship’s logs from you. And even if discovered now you would be delayed in understanding its background.”

Roland looks at you. 

“And I’m assuming you and your friend Fernando have the background with civilian models to help.”

Shaking slightly, still in the vents, you nod. 

“No promises, but we might be able to access the logs. If I’m right about this specific model you missed the backup logs. If the wreckage is still in storage there’s a chance Fernando and I can recover it.” 

Roland hums. 

“I would. But those storage units are under the strict eye of the senior Rothfeller.”

You gasp.

Then grit your teeth.

Fucking nepotism. 

“I’ll need to talk to the captain about it, because this breaks so many levels of regulation and clearance even I can’t overlook it.”

You nod. 

Roland’s image softens.

“Hey, thank you. Really. You don’t realize the impact you have. I’ve never seen the Chief act like that with anyone .”

You can’t help it. 

You blush.

“They’ve been fighting so long I think they need a few civvie’s to remind them the universe can be kind.” 

Roland then grins and cackles again before you can even process the sappiness of that. It reminds you of the culture of sincerity and expression on Luelle. 

“Oh, and by the way? Kai hacked the vent system in this corridor. You have 20 seconds before it shifts and opens you up to them.”

You swear and begging frantically crawling, Roland disappearing like a little fucking elf, your two cats chittering as you catch up to them.