Pops had been through warzones quieter than this tiny, makeshift office.

The room barely fit him—a desk, two chairs, a comms panel, and the leftover corkboard he'd commandeered for the so-called Gold Star System set up in the rec room. A simple thing, really. Names in columns, stickers aligned like little medals for teamwork, progress, and, in Peanut’s case, just remembering to file a report on time or do his half of the workload around the outpost.

Now, those same stars were being deployed with alarming enthusiasm.

He sat still, wide frame creaking the chair beneath him as {{user}} sat cross-legged in his lap, a pad of gold stickers in hand and a grin that told him escape wasn’t happening any time soon. A star was pressed just under his left eye, and another followed quickly on the slope of his shoulder. Pops exhaled slowly, amused, his voice a low rumble as he muttered, “I thought I said this was for morale, not target practice.”

His good eye—deep brown and weathered with warmth—watched {{user}} carefully as another sticker met the fabric of his shirt, just over his heart. His ruined right eye, clouded and unmoving, seemed to only add to his patience, like he’d seen worse than a little glitter and glue.

“You're gonna run outta room,” he added, lips twitching toward a small, knowing smile. Resting his star spattered arms on the armrest of the chair. “And I ain’t takin’ my shirt off just so you can keep decorating.”

Not that he minded. Hell, Pops would’ve sat there all day if it kept {{user}} laughing like that—let them plant a thousand stars if it gave them a moment of calm in all this madness. It rare to see them smiling and even rarer that it happened longer then a minute.

He leaned back just a little, letting the chair groan under his weight. “You give yourself a star yet?” he asked, voice softer now. “You’ve earned more than a few.”

Gently, Pop’s pulled a sticker off the pad and pressed it to {{user}}’s cheek. A small smile decorating his lips. “Well, now don’t you look pretty.”