#i've seen food listed as a trigger warning before so hopefully this covers both the gif and the content

[ageless-aislynn]

Title: “15 Minutes” (4/?) Author:  @ageless-aislynn​ Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: John would rather you not punch a Warthog. Again. Also, he requests the pleasure of your company for lunch. Rating:  T (PG13) Length: 1,877 Spoilers/warnings: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Note: the AU Warthog was not injured in any altercation. 😛 Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N:  Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. Apologies for the long break between chapters. I've been struggling with some health issues but I definitely haven't abandoned this one. This chapter ran SO ridonkulously long (almost half the length of the first 3 chapters put together 😱) that I at last opted to split it. The newly created Chapter 5 will be along soon. *pinkie swears* 😉 Anyway, I continue on in my mission to give John #AllTheNiceThings because I remain sooo very soft for this big Spartan boi... 🤗😉💖 Thank you to all who have hung in there despite the months of unexpected radio-silence. Ugh, life, right? 😬 And welcome to anyone who might be just finding this story. 😉 However it is, if you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger​ @mysardencut​ @laurenstacy610​ @sporadicbelievernightmare​ @ultrablackwidower​ @bxmxtx​

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

...

You flexed your hand, trying to surreptitiously ease the ache in your knuckles. When you picked up the tray to start down the chow line, the injury protested until you adjusted so that the tray was balanced across your forearm while the other hand held on for all it was worth. The lunch special might not be very special but it was better than dropping your food all over the floor.

Once you were loaded up, you turned, scanning for any familiar faces. You spotted Jamie and Maria and started in their direction but Jamie did an exaggerated eye roll to the other side of the room. You obligingly looked that way and, at first, all you saw were hungry marines jostling for their place in the queue. But then there was a shift and they parted almost as cleanly as the Red Sea.

John sat alone at one of the smaller tables and, as soon as you made eye contact, he smiled.

Your heart felt like it did a biologically impossible flip as you smiled back and wove your way over to meet him.

The tables and chairs weren't Spartan-sized, so he looked like an adult sitting at the kids' table. His tray was black, unlike the weird red-pink used by the marine's mess, and it held a lot more food, most of it various forms of protein.

His tray jostled and you realized that he was trying to get his knees out from under the table so he could stand. He'd done that charmingly chivalrous thing before when you'd grabbed dinner together, holding your chair for you as if you were at a fancy restaurant instead of the mess hall.

"Stay, it's all right," you told him and he adjusted his tray so you could put yours down before you sat.

You angled so there was room for your legs under the table without having to straddle one of his. Though, from the looks you were getting, there were no doubt many bets already placed on how often you were straddling a lot more than that.

Your cheeks went hot but hopefully John would just think it was from the steam coming up from your plate.

Kai and her boxing match with one of the marines, then subsequent whirlwind romance had been all anyone had been talking about since it happened. The Spartans were larger than life, by far the closest thing the UNSC had to celebrities, with all of the gossip and speculation about their quote-unquote "inner lives" as that entailed.

"What happened to your hand?" he asked by way of greeting and then made an unhappy sound when you turned it to reveal the discoloration on your skin. He reached out in a mute request for you to rest your palm in his so he could better examine the injury.

"Well," you said, matter-of-fact, "I got in a bit of a punching contest."

He abruptly shifted into Master Chief John-117, his pitch deepening. "With who?"

For a moment, you pitied the hypothetical person about to face some serious Spartan wrath. "A Warthog," you clarified. "It turns out that I should've only gone in to the elbow instead of the shoulder. Kinda ended up punching the engine block, which was a not-so-good idea."

He exhaled in a controlled breath and became just John once more. "No, that's a very not-so-good idea. Did you get it looked at?"

"It's just a bruise."

That earned you a bit of the Master Chief back again as he arched an eyebrow.

"See? I can move my fingers and everything," you insisted and if flexing your fingers meant curling them around his, well… There was that. Your hands were appropriately sized for your height and his made them look positively miniscule.

"Medics make the worst patients," he pointed out, very, very carefully brushing his thumb back and forth along your fingers, avoiding the bruised area.

"Fair point," you allowed. "I'll stop by medical before I report for duty again."

"Good. And please promise me that you won't punch anymore Warthogs, hm?"

You gave a cavalier shrug. "I can't promise that. Sometimes those things have to be taught who's boss."

He briefly glanced away as if someone were speaking to him on comms, then his gaze came back to you. "In that case, give me a call and I'll punch it for you."

"Now that would be something to see," you agreed.

He still had your hand resting in his and you found yourself loathe to move it. You could certainly eat with the other one, now couldn't you? Would that be too obvious? Did it matter?

You picked up your fork and stirred your meal. The mystery contents in the heavy white sauce was some sort of noodle base, you were 99.9% certain of it. As you chased a bite around your plate, you considered that you really should have gotten the roll, even if it looked hard enough to shoot out of a canon and blow a hole in a Covenant Wraith a klick away. It would've softened up in the gravy -- probably -- and at least given you some help getting the rest of it on the fork tines.

"What is that?" he asked after observing for a moment.

"Chicken Surprise."

"It's more like: I'd be surprised if there's chicken." He slid his hand out from under yours and you tried to hide your disappointment.

Besides a generous helping of actual vegetables and two baked potatoes, split open and steaming with all of the trimmings, his oversized platter had a thick piece of steak and two full chicken breasts. With a few deft moves, he'd deposited one of the chicken breasts onto your plate.

"Oh," you said, startled. "That's okay, this is fine. I don't want to take away from your--"

"I've got plenty, I promise," he said firmly, tapping his knife and fork together. "Now, do you like steak?"

"This is more than enough, thank you," you demurred and tried to deflect. "You know, I honestly didn't know Spartans got the 5-star restaurant experience. I'm glad. You guys deserve it."

"This is Dr. Keyes' doing. Dr. Halsey had us on a specially formulated nutrition paste."

You grimaced with real feeling. They didn't even put nutri-paste in MREs anymore. Too many soldiers said they'd rather starve, thanks anyway. There was a rumor that, years ago, some brave, unnamed marine had managed to infiltrate the catering staff for a big Officers' Gala and swapped out the internal components of ravioli with nutri-paste but no one could confirm it. It sounded like fancy scuttlebutt but it had been taken off the list of approved foods after that, so there might've been truth to the tall tale.

"Since we really didn't care about the taste back then, it didn't matter. But now that we…" He abruptly trailed off.

"Classified. It's okay," you assured him.

"Dr. Keyes seems to want to make up for all of the years of paste we ate," he concluded. "I'll put in a word that 'Chicken Surprise' needs to be re-evaluated as edible."

"Now, don't knock Chicken Surprise if you've never tried it," you teased and he handed you his spoon with an air of expectation. You scooped him up some from your plate and gave it back to him.

He sampled it with a speculative expression. "Not as bad as I expected," he finally proclaimed, "but try mine."

You attempted to clutch your fork with your injured hand while the other wielded the knife but it hurt more than you wanted to admit. So you struggled for a moment to cut one-handedly before John reached over and secured the chicken breast down with his fork.

You glanced up at him and the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You opened my drink pouch for me," he pointed out. "Least I can do is return the favor."

It felt like ages ago when you had found him practically passed out and got him to drink some electrolytes in a supply closet. You remembered being a little intimidated by his reputation at the time but now looking at him sitting across from you…

Well, you didn't really want to try to identify the feeling that swelled in your chest every time you looked at him now. But it definitely wasn't any sort of fear.

"Thanks, Chief," you said with a wink then turned your attention back to your food. You paused briefly to admire the herbs encrusting the perfectly browned surface before taking a bite and trying not to moan. "Ohhh, do they have a professional chef hidden on base somewhere or what?"

"Sure you don't want some steak?" he drawled in a tempting tone.

"Well, maybe just a tiny little--"

He was already slicing you off a generous portion and also ended up giving you part of a baked potato and some of the vegetables as well. He tried to insist on more but you finally said, "You know that I can do at least a rough calculation of how many calories you need to maintain your mass, right? I'd never forgive myself if you started wasting away. So, that's that. Thank you."

He gave a crooked smile. "Well, I'd never argue with a woman who can calculate my mass."

All of that trading food back and forth had earned as much attention as the fact there was a Spartan eating with the marines.

"Hey, Master Chief," a young female soldier said in an earnest tone as she passed by. "Good to see you, sir."

"Afternoon," he returned with a cordial nod.

Apparently, his response was noteworthy. The next thing you knew, there was a crowd around the table.

"Chief, is it true you once punched an Elite so hard an entirely different Elite's helmet flew off?"

"Chief, did you really pick up a giant Covenant bomb, fly it through space without a craft, and then throw it back at them?"

"What's it like to swing one of those big Gravity Hammers, Chief?"

He paused, then said in turn, "No. Yes. Very satisfying when you hit a Brute with it."

They jostled each other in sheer delight. You continued eating -- everything from the Spartan meal was amazing, you'd never eaten at a restaurant with food so good -- watching John handle the questions from his admirers.

But when they began pulling up chairs, he abruptly looked a little trapped. You chewed quickly, intending to come to his rescue, but Maria appeared before you could.

"Move it along, marines," she barked and, given that she came from a family of DIs, she had the tone down pat. "Let the man eat his lunch in peace."

That immediately got them to scatter with a smattering of "Thanks, Chief. Have a good lunch, Chief. Come back soon, sir" comments as they left. She winked at us and then vanished back the way she had come.

"Sorry about the interruption," he told you, sounding unexpectedly embarrassed by the clear adoration.

"No need," you returned. "You totally made their day. They ought to send you out on morale boosting missions."

"I'm not much of a public speaker," he said, then continued in a confessional tone, "I don't know why they call me 'sir.' By now, they ought to know that's not how you address an NCO."

"Nothing to do with rank," you told him and he tilted his head curiously. "It's respect. You're their hero."

He looked down at his plate and you could've sworn he blushed slightly. A companionable silence fell as you both resumed eating, broken when he said in an overly casual tone, "So, are you busy tonight?"

Adrenaline zinged through you but you quickly chastised yourself. It wasn't like he was asking you on a date or anything.

"What do you have in mind?" Your attempt to sound casual was no better than his.

"Do you like movies?" he asked with a hint of a hopeful smile.