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ceyx-of-the-shore · 2 months

Text

When The Music Stops

PAIRING: Emile-A239 x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You were the only one who Emile would listen to in times like these. You didn't know he valued you as much as you did him.

WARNINGS: Angst in the beginning, mentions of blood, mentions of injury/fighting, eventual fluff, growing feelings, Emile is heavily sarcastic and comes off as blunt, no set timeline - just a drabble, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform/into an A.I. program.*

You rush into the room, the door sliding quickly to the side beside you as a rush of chilled air slaps your face. The facilities on Reach were always cold—freezing, actually. Like a damn meat locker. The Medical branch more so than anywhere else, but this time you could deal with it.

At the very least, it could steady out your heated annoyance.

“Emile!” You call, locking instantly onto the heavily armored man standing in his Mark V[B] at the center of the small room, hands clenched so hard you hear his gloves squeal as his knuckles crack inside of them. But the Spartan had already turned his helmeted face to you long before you opened that door, hearing your footsteps down the hall, the pattern of which he’d memorized months ago. That carved skeleton jeers in the overhead light, every little cut a funeral service for Covenant troops scored like paint across a canvas.

To you, it was a far too familiar sight, and you liked it far more when it was out of your Ward.

“Jesus,” you comment, slapping the pad on the wall to make the door shut behind you as you walk through with a serious face, waving your hands in anger. “What the hell happened out there?! I have half of the staff running around trying to gather enough supplies to stabilize a damn skull fracture, Emile!”

There’s blood on the ground of the examination room—your examination room. But it wasn’t Emile’s. It drips from his fingers and his MJOLNIR like a red river of dark deeds. The Spartan doesn’t even seem to mind it, and, you know, he doesn’t. If you had to guess, you would say he enjoyed it.

“Nothing,” that monotone voice slowly drips out, the SPARTAN-III nonchalantly shaking out his left wrist and fixing his stance, even though that casual rigidity remains. Animalistic calm. “Just cleaned up a few loose ends, Doc.”

“There are three ODSTs that went in for combat training today and are spending the night in here because of you,” you hiss, stalking up to the gigantic man and pointing a finger into his chest plate. He has to physically look down at you at this angle, and you think you’ll never get used to his unnatural height—both in and out of the MJOLNIR. “Carter warned you about another fight with non-Spartans, Emile—this can’t keep happening! I can’t keep trying to cover for you when you lose your temper!”

For once you’re shocked that the man in front of you lets you spew your words; it wasn’t often the hothead had nothing to say for himself, certainly about his own actions when his gung-ho attitude came out.

Your glare softens, tirade stalled for but a moment as the minutes lengthen after your scolding.

A silence falls, your own eyes blinking down at you from the reflection of the scarred visor, those etched marks that make up the image of death unwavering. Not a sliver of the Spartan’s visage is to be seen—it rarely is. Emile breathed slightly heavily, and his arms shook with leftover anger from not half-an-hour earlier when he’d sent his fist into those ODSTs. You can hear the scrape of his esophagus as clear as day, and if you strain your ears harder, you can image his fire-like pulse as well.

Where a deep disappointment had bred, now only concern takes its place.

You blink, raising a hand from your side hesitantly; pausing.

“Emile?” At the small touch on his elbow, the Spartan tenses, but you easily speak in a soft tone, dipping your voice. You can’t recall seeing Emile so…statue-still. “Hey,” you utter, brows creasing as the Spartan’s visor refuses to move an inch from staring you down. As if trying to calm himself by only your presence alone. “Hey, Big Guy. Okay, let’s…let’s take a breath, alright?”

You steady your own, but you know the rapid beat of your heart gives you away.

Emile grunts, turning his head from you to glare at the side wall; you know his jaw is clenched tight under his helmet. But he does as you ask, and you feel his chest bump your form as he inhales deeply.

It was a good thing you found him—of all the staff here, you seemed to be the only one he actually listened to. Even now, it brings a small feeling of pride with it, and you know it shouldn't.

It’s a quiet moment that once more settles, and you feel his tension seep out while you still hold onto his elbow, occasionally caressing your thumb up and down. You know the man best; you’re prideful because you’re the only medic on Reach equipped to handle his snark and aggression—the best at it. And the simple fact is that Emile only comes to you anyway.

“Good,” you nod softly. Taking a step back, you slowly tilt your head and frown at him.

He scoffs before he speaks, but it lacks any venom.

“Came on there pretty hard, Doc.” A nickname for you, only he’s allowed to use it. Emile grumbles and crosses his arms, feet spacing out. But his tone is…off. “Thought I’d be on my ass in a little bit.” “What happened?” You don’t beat around the bush, your eyes deathly serious. “You’re not acting right at all. You haven’t even bragged about how easy they were to bring down.”

“So I need to brag now, is that it?”

Glaring, you set your jaw and level out with him. “Show me your hands, A-239.”

“Woah,” Emile drags out the word, chuckling as you grapple for his hand, moving his head to the side as if studying an ant and saying sarcastically. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Peeling back the armor plating and the thick undersuit, you’re left with slightly inflamed knuckles. With the enhancements of the Spartan's physical forms, even so for the IIIs, these would heal fairly quickly—hours at most. But the sight still rang off alarm bells.

How hard had he been punching those ODSTs to leave a mark on himself? Through armor and muscle?

“Emile,” you urge, firm attention staying on the swelling.

You can feel his eyes on you—digging and heavy. But on this, you would not relent. In your time together, you’d grown fond of him and his horrible attitude. He was off putting, sure, and rough: a bit bad for civilian relations, of course; yet you’d had the privilege to know him as others usually didn’t.

Emile was bluntly honest, and with you…he listened. That was a trust far earned and it had taken months to even get a break in him.

The giant released a low sigh and with a hand motion that equaled ‘fine,’ he shook his head and pushed out through a board tone. “...They were talking ‘bout you. Didn’t like their tones.” A finger touches the back of your skull, brushing across it briefly and disappearing as if never there. You fight back a gasp. “‘Specially when they thought it was smart to say it when I was right there.”

You pause at that, still holding his warm hand as his fingers twitch in your grasp—tiny things compared to the calluses and bulk of muscle. It’s like your heart stops, a foreign heat making the room's chill completely halt.

You stare at his knuckles and feel your eyes blink quickly. Inside of your chest, your heart completely skips beats.

“Took ‘em to the ring,” he says like he’s reading a report. “Threw ‘em down. They lost and I won, and I made them think twice when they’re talking about my favorite Medic like that.” His helmet shifts your way. “You think I’d let them get away with that, Doc?”

“I…” you stutter, for once in your life, lost for words. Emile chuckles to himself, tilting his head mockingly.

“Now isn’t that nice.”

Your face burns even more as the man’s hand shifts out of your hold, tapping your chin up with a finger. His helmet leans into you.

“Thought I’d stop by and have my girl check up on me before someone else managed to get in my way. You didn’t disappoint. Never do.” You’re speechless, heart rapidly pounding and throat bobbing with a swallow. You know he sees it because he chuckles again and his head moves up and down in a sweep of your body.

Emile hums, squeezing your flesh with his thumb and forefinger before letting his hand drop and pulling on his glove.

“You hear anything going ‘round about you, you just let me know, yeah?” There’s a serious edge to that sentence. “Let me take care of it.”

All you do is nod dumbly a blank moment later and feel your face go malleable. You don’t even know how to respond to that—you shouldn’t be encouraging physical fights just because you thought it was an…archaically sweet, if not inherently violent, sentiment.

But was Emile anything but? You knew what you were getting into.

“Good.” Emile moves his head back and stares for a moment longer, his chest rising and falling in a silent sigh of breath, before, soldier-like once more, he walks forward and exits the room with a whoosh of recycled air.

“Be seeing you, Doc.”

You hear the door slap shut and still gape at where he once stood in front of you, fire under your skin and a deep pull in your heart as you stutter under your breath. Clearing your throat minutes later, you blink, flatten out your clothes, and quickly exit into the hallway—hearing every connection of your feet to the floor.

There was something so very wrong about this that made you want to see how it might end. Even if it resulted in your blood-thirsty Spartan standing in your examination room once more, knuckles swollen and his body looming above yours like a silent, skeletal sentinel; some brutish dog ready to tear flesh at a moment's notice.

If only to feel his bare skin again, and the weight of his words on your chest.

"Shit," you breathe, grasping at the bridge of your nose as nurses rush past you. All of your thoughts are about Emile, and you have to internally wonder when that had started happening. "...This isn't good."

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