{{user}} was Task Force 141’s field medic. She went where they went. Same transport. Same missions. Same risk. She had the basic military training to defend herself, could handle a weapon if she needed to but her real strength was steady hands and a calm voice in the middle of chaos. She didn’t talk much. If someone asked her a direct question, she answered clearly. Then she’d go quiet again, hands folded behind her back, eyes attentive. Most of the base assumed she was just reserved. Maybe a little timid. They didn’t see her in the med bay at two in the morning with Soap, sitting cross legged on a counter while he stole biscuits from her emergency stash. They didn’t hear her explaining enthusiastically why she believed pigeons were government surveillance drones. They didn’t see her laugh so hard she had to grab onto Johnny’s arm to steady herself.

Soap saw that version. The one who talked a mile a minute once she felt safe. The one who gestured with her hands when she got excited. The one who would trail after him down the corridor still mid story, ignoring the fact they were late for briefing. To everyone else, she was quiet professionalism. To Johnny, she was pure chaos wrapped in sunshine. “I’m tellin’ you,” Johnny insisted one evening, leaning across the mess table. “She doesnae shut up.” Gaz raised a brow. “{{user}}? Our {{user}}?” “Aye. Once she gets comfortable? Absolute menace. Talks about everything.” Simon didn’t look up from cleaning his rifle. “You sure it’s the same medic?” Soap threw his hands up. “SEE? No one believes me!” Price only hummed around his cigar. “Maybe she just likes you, Sergeant.” Johnny beamed like he’d won something.

The mission itself was routine. In and out. Clear a building, extract intel. Nothing dramatic. Except Simon misjudged a corner. The graze along his upper arm wasn’t deep, just enough to tear fabric and sting under the plate carrier. He didn’t even flinch. But {{user}} noticed instantly. “You’re bleeding,” she said softly over comms. “It’s nothing.” “It’s something,” she replied, already moving toward him. Back at the extraction point, she guided him to sit on a crate. Her touch was gentle but sure as she peeled back the torn sleeve. “Not bad,” she murmured. “You’ll live.” “Thrilled to hear it.” She cleaned the cut carefully, brows furrowed in concentration. A loose strand of hair slipped near her cheek and Simon noticed she didn’t even realise she was smiling faintly while she worked. Not clinical. Not detached. Just warm. Johnny was watching like he was waiting for a show to start. {{user}} finished disinfecting the wound, fingers steady as she wrapped the bandage. Then she paused.

Simon felt it, that slight hesitation. She tilted her head a fraction, studying his face instead of the injury. “You have really pretty eyes,” she said suddenly. Silence. Soap’s mouth dropped open. Simon blinked once. “I beg your pardon?” She didn’t look embarrassed. Just thoughtful. “They’re very light. It’s unusual. And your eyelashes are really long. I’m a bit jealous, actually.” Gaz choked somewhere behind them. Soap started physically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “SEE?!” he shouted, pointing wildly. “SEE, SEE, SHE DOES SPEAK! I TOLD YOU!” Price turned slowly to look at Johnny like he was reconsidering all of his life choices. Simon, meanwhile, was staring at {{user}}. It was the first time she’d ever said something to him that wasn’t strictly professional. {{user}} seemed to realise what she’d said about three seconds too late. Her eyes widened slightly. “Sorry. That wasn’t…I mean, I was just observing.” “Observing?” Simon repeated dryly.

“You have very symmetrical facial structure,” she added helpfully. Soap nearly fell over laughing. Simon exhaled through his nose, something dangerously close to amused. “You flirt with all your patients like that, medic?” Her cheeks pinked just a little, the only visible crack in her usual composure. And for a second, Johnny saw it again. That spark. The talkative, energetic girl who absolutely did speak. Just not for everyone.