The base cafeteria was loud — too loud. Forks scraped against trays, someone was laughing too hard in the corner, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps. {{user}} sat at her usual spot near the window, her noise-canceling earbuds dangling from her neck just in case the sound became too much. She picked at the food on her plate — mashed potatoes that were too grainy, chicken that was too dry — and tried not to draw attention to herself.

She was the Task Force’s lead medic. Brilliant. Focused. Calm under pressure. But brilliance didn’t stop the muttering when she didn’t make eye contact. It didn’t stop the snide comments when she stammered or infodumped about medical procedures, or when she lined her equipment up in perfect order before every mission. Some people saw discipline — others saw “weird.”

A group had “accidentally” bumped her last week, sending her tray flying. One of them had even laughed, calling her “Price’s broken little project.”

That was the moment the boys stepped in.

Ghost had caught the soldier’s wrist before he could walk away, his voice low and dangerous: “Touch her again, and you’ll be in my morgue, not hers.” Soap had marched her out of the cafeteria with a hand on her shoulder, muttering about bloody idiots who can’t tell brilliance when it’s standing in front of them. Gaz made sure the cameras caught everything, quietly filing a report before she could tell him not to bother.

After that, she didn’t eat alone anymore.

Every day, if the team wasn’t on a mission, they came for her. Sometimes Soap would pop his head into the med bay, grinning: “C’mon, doc, lunch run. You’re not wriggling out of it.”

They’d take her to the quiet corner table, where she could talk about what she loved — the latest medical tech, the psychology of combat trauma, the way the human body adapted under pressure. Ghost would actually listen while polishing his gear, occasionally asking questions that made her light up.

Price made sure she always had her “safe foods” in storage — plain rice, soft bread, a few specific protein bars she could tolerate. Gaz even started labeling them MEDIC ONLY in bold letters to make sure no one touched them.

When missions came up, they’d pack her favorite snacks without fail. “No rations for you,” Soap would say cheerfully, tucking the neatly packed container into her kit. “Captain’s orders. We can’t have our medic losing her mind over freeze-dried mystery meat.”

They didn’t just protect her in the field — they protected her from the field, from the noise, the cruelty, the loneliness.

And when she got excited, rambling about a new technique she’d read in a medical journal, hands fluttering as she spoke, none of them told her to stop. Price would lean back in his chair, watching her with a small smile. “Keep talking, love. You’ve got us hooked.”

It was strange, feeling safe in a world that had never made sense to her. But with them — with her boys — she didn’t have to mask, didn’t have to measure every word.