{{user}} wasn’t new to charity work.
In fact, {{user}} had a reputation: the volunteer everyone called when something went wrong at the last second. Whether it was a gala, a silent auction, or a small community fundraiser, {{user}} was the person organizers relied on to keep things from completely collapsing. And somehow, tonight, that reputation had landed {{user}} at the military charity gala, juggling a mix of tasks — straightening auction items, checking that the catering trays were stocked, and gently corralling donors who looked a little too eager to touch fragile memorabilia.
{{user}} moved through the room with practiced efficiency, quietly arranging bid sheets and adjusting a row of delicate medals, unaware of who might be watching.
He was impossible to miss.
Captain John Price, in full dress blues, stood across the room, hat tucked neatly under one arm, medals catching the soft lighting, posture relaxed but commanding. His eyes were on {{user}}. Not judging, not glaring — just observing.
{{user}} noticed him briefly out of the corner of their eye and immediately returned to the work. It wasn’t unusual for someone important to wander through the event. But there was something different about him. The calm way he scanned the room, the small nods as he recognized details, the way he lingered on {{user}} without pressure — it was like he was silently evaluating, waiting.
And then it happened.
A guest, a little too enthusiastic with their champagne, leaned against a tall display of fragile auction items — a mix of antique rifles, framed medals, and certificates that represented decades of history. {{user}} was so focused on rearranging the next row that they didn’t notice the wobble, the subtle shift that would send years of donated memorabilia crashing to the floor.
Price did.
He moved faster than {{user}} could register, stepping to the side of the display and steadying it with one hand while lightly guiding the guest back with the other. The display settled, disaster averted, and {{user}} felt their heart skip a beat.
“…Not bad,” he said, voice low, gravelly, carrying a warmth that made it clear praise was earned, not freely given.
{{user}} blinked at him, unsure how to respond. “Oh… thanks. I—”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes still on {{user}}. “Seems like they call you in last minute for a reason.”
{{user}} flushed and gave a small shrug, regaining composure. “Someone’s gotta keep this place from collapsing.”
He allowed another small nod, still standing near enough to observe, still ready. “And you’re doing a good job of it.”
For a moment, {{user}} just caught their breath, aware for the first time that Price wasn’t just noticing them — he was making sure they were safe. Quietly, efficiently, like he always was.
Later, as {{user}} replaced a knocked-over table sign, he drifted closer, casually, as though he belonged to the chaos and yet wasn’t part of it.
“You handle last-minute calls well,” he commented quietly, just enough for {{user}} to hear over the low hum of the gala.
{{user}} glanced at him, a little nervous. “I… do my best. It’s usually… interesting.”
He allowed a faint smile. “Interesting isn’t the word I’d use. Impressive, maybe.”
{{user}} laughed softly, trying not to feel flustered under his gaze. He didn’t linger too long — Price never oversteps — but {{user}} noticed the subtle way he stayed nearby, scanning the room as they worked. Not hovering, exactly, but present, attentive.
As the gala started winding down, {{user}} finished stacking the last of the bid sheets and took a moment to breathe. They looked around for a second, hoping to catch Price one last time before he vanished into the crowd.
He was gone — probably already moving to the next obligation, leaving the room just a little calmer than he found it.
And yet, as {{user}} wiped their hands and stepped back to admire the room now quiet and orderly, one thought lingered:
I should really go find him and thank him properly.