Work Text:
Grooming
"So, is this a sex thing?"
The Arbiter starts to ask is what a sex thing, but finds his mandibles are blocked. It takes another beat to realise they're blocked by Chief's head. He must have resorted to post-coital instinct, he pulls off quickly.
"My apologies." The Arbiter gives Chief's scalp a quick check, but there are only a few pinpricks of blood and it's hard to tell how raw the skin is under the hair. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, it's not a big deal," Chief says. "Not for me. Is it a sex thing for you?"
"No," the Arbiter says. He leans back and Chief takes the cue to turn so they're facing each other. "It is more to do with personal maintenance."
"So it's a grooming thing."
The Arbiter nods. "There are scales that are hard to reach alone —" he gestures to the back of his neck, "— that a partner can deal with easier. A sign of a good relationship is how well your shed is taken care of."
"Huh," Chief says in the way that means he didn't see something coming. "I didn't realise you shed your skin. Is it all at once?"
"There is a period over which all my scales will be replaced. It usually takes a few weeks." The Arbiter makes the calculations in his head. "My next shed is due in a year. Perhaps you will have the opportunity to witness it firsthand."
"Here's hoping." Chief shrugs affectionately. "Will you get bigger?"
"Not noticeably. I am old enough that I should not even need my armour adjusted."
Chief is excellent at taking things in stride and sets about tidying up the mess their intercourse has made.
The Arbiter starts cleaning his mandibles, slowly folding one in at a time to allow his tongue to reach. The salt-tang of human sweat and skin flakes would be off-putting if it didn't belong to his q'q'ckthugh.
"I've got a quicker way to do that," Chief offers.
Which is how the Arbiter finds himself holding a white plastic stick with bristles on one end, with more trepidation than the first time he'd snatched up a human shotgun and had scant seconds to figure out the alien grip before the Flood got him.
"It's a toothbrush," Chief says, holding an identical stick. "Use it like this."
He demonstrates on his own teeth. It makes sense, given humans' back teeth are made for chewing, though the amount of white foam that Chief has to spit out is concerning.
The Arbiter gives the paste on the bristles a tentative sniff — strongly minty. He unfurls a mandible and brushes the toothy inside.
It's extremely strange. Cold and hot all at once and the bristles poke his gums like a prickly psanana. The Arbiter is unsure that it is necessarily making his teeth feel any cleaner as much as it's just flooding his senses with overwhelming mint.
There's a familiar twinge in his gum. The Arbiter holds up his hand as he flexes his mandible and a tooth drops out onto his palm.
"Shit," gargles Chief through a mouthful of foam. He spits into the sink. "Are you —"
"No sign of rot," the Arbiter says. He inspects the tooth, it's as clean as he could hope for. "It appears human rations agree with my physiology."
"You're not freaking out?" Chief asks. There's still a smear of toothpaste on his chin. The Arbiter wipes it off for him.
"Should I be? There is no pain and it was due." The Arbiter considers why Chief might be concerned. "Is there a lot of blood?"
"No," Chief says.
They're both missing something in the exchange. The Arbiter looks at the toothbrush and his lost tooth in confusion. It's Chief who realises it first.
"Do Elite teeth grow back?"
"Human teeth do not?" The idea is so alien.
"The first set does, but then we're stuck with what we've got," Chief says. "Sucks if you take too many hits to the face." He points at three teeth on his upper jaw, "replacements aren't bad though."
That sounds unfortunate. The Arbiter resolves to avoid Chief's jaw when they are next sparring.
It is odd to think that humans are so willing to augment themselves even with something as small as replacement teeth. Their military technology appeared to be a necessary evil, but perhaps common-place enhancements such as these are why humans are so prone to adaptation in the face of difficulty.
Privacy
There are moments when no one dares to look askance at the Arbiter for his attachment to a human. Moments when the war and other people fall away and he can know contentment, if only for a little while.
"So it is true," the Vice-Captain of the Mercy In Retribution says. "You lay with humans."
That is rarely the case during missions that involve new contact with Elites who have yet to decide if they wish to fight for the Arbiter and not only against the Covenant.
"If you wish to challenge me, do it properly," the Arbiter states, drawing himself up. "Do not waste my time with pointless statements."
The Vice-Captain backs down just enough to stop being offensively aggressive. There is still suspicion and no small amount of malice in her glare.
The Arbiter is used to it. He turns his attention to the rest of the gathered Elites.
"As long as you do not raise arms against us, we have no quarrel with you," he says. "If you wish to join our fight against the Covenant, we will be grateful for any assistance you can provide. If not, you are free to leave. The Forward Unto Dawn will offer an escort to a planet within two systems of here, should you require it."
He leaves them when he's finished. The Elites will need time without direct supervision to come to a conclusion. The Arbiter may not be directly superior to them, like he was when he was Supreme Commander, but now he exists outside of the usual chain of command and his position demands respect, even with the mantle having been given to him as a punishment.
There are always tasks to be done in the main hangar. The Arbiter busies himself stripping weapons for maintenance and storage while he waits for the Elites to make their decision.
"Arbiter." A sub-lieutenant approaches him with her squad. "We will fight for you."
The rest of the crew of the Mercy In Retribution still have to make their decision, but this is promising. The Arbiter gives a cordial nod.
"Thank you, sub-lieutenant," he says. "The humans in blue over there can find space for your squad if the others decide otherwise."
"Thank you." The sub-lieutenant hesitates, "May I ask some questions?"
Not unexpected, and at least they've had the decency to ask at a sensible time and with no threat growled behind the words. The Arbiter continues taking apart an assault rifle and prepares himself.
Sometimes being high-ranking has its drawbacks.
"Humans," the sub-lieutenant asks. "I would like to know more about them now that we are to be allies."
"I am hardly an expert," the Arbiter says truthfully. "My experience has only been with one human; I do not know how well it would generalise."
"What are their shafts like?" the squad's pilot asks eagerly, leaning around the sub-lieutenant.
"Short," the Arbiter replies. "Though —"
"Hey!" one of the humans sorting ammunition at the crates next to the Arbiter protests. "You can't just go around saying Master Chief's got a small dick."
"It's not even true," another marine chips in.
"How the fuck would you know, Robinson?" The first human says.
"Saw him in the showers once," Robinson says easily. "C'mon, Gray, like you wouldn't've looked. Eight inches, easily."
The translator doesn't give a consistent measurement for inches — the Arbiter has come to believe that it's because humans are notoriously bad at judging distances by eye and their continued guesstimates have taught the learning software incorrect values — however, at least he can clear up the confusion on the Elite side of the exchange.
"Approximately four cslikha," he says.
The pilot twists his mandibles in disappointment. There are some mutterings between him and his teammates. The Arbiter notes, not for the first time, that the heavy clicking around sexual language in Elites' voices often causes the humans' translation software to struggle. Perhaps it is set to a lower priority.
"Human tongues are quite impressive," the Arbiter offers.
Robinson sticks his tongue out when the sub-lieutenant looks sceptical. She looks much more interested when she sees how it bends.
"Just what the hell have I walked in on?" Sergeant Johnson says as he strides up to the group. He looks over the new Elites then back to the Arbiter with a raised eyebrow. "They good?"
"They will fight with us," the Arbiter replies.
"Do humans have clear indicators for sexual availability?" the sub-lieutenant asks.
Johnson blinks. "Say what now?"
"We were discussing compatibility," the Arbiter explains.
"Yeah," Robinson says, then turns back to his ammo crate when Johnson glares at him.
"You know what, I'm not gonna deal with this," Johnson says. He jabs his cigar at the Arbiter. "You go find your boyfriend and get him to explain why we don't talk about alien orgies." The last word glitches through the translator, sounding like sex and party and bonding all at once.
Bemused, the Arbiter leaves the weapons for Johnson to deal with and directs the Elites to the mess hall — the Forward Unto Dawn has finally started serving Elite-appropriate meals and well-fed soldiers were happy, non-mutinying soldiers.
Chief is on the bridge, wrapping up his debrief with Commander Keyes. The Arbiter waits for Keyes to dismiss him before posing his question.
"Is there a reason that discussing sex in public would cause humans discomfort?"
Chief stills. Behind him, Keyes makes a strangled choking sound. All the humans working at terminals are suddenly extremely focused on their work.
Interesting.
"It's usually private," Chief says eventually.
"Even for those in command?" the Arbiter presses.
"Then it's usually even more private," Chief says. "Why?"
"How do your troops know how to emulate you if they don't know?" the Arbiter says.
Keyes makes another strangled noise and several of the humans nearby have gone an odd shade of red. Chief glances around then rolls his shoulders in something close to discomfort.
"I think it'd be best to talk about this elsewhere," Chief says.
He takes the Arbiter back to his quarters. The bed has been made since their hurried rush to respond to the alert from the Mercy In Retribution and someone has sprayed a harsh-smelling cleaning fluid on a bloodstain the Arbiter had left on the floor a week ago.
"So," Chief says, once the door's shut and locked. "Let's clear this up."
The Arbiter nods. "Explain, please."
"For humans, sex is private," Chief starts.
"The physical acts of intimacy, yes," the Arbiter says. "It is the same for Elites. However, discussing sex with others is frowned upon?"
"It's not usually done in the middle of a full bridge shift in front of command," Chief says. "Marines joke around a bunch, but they don't really talk about actual details a whole lot."
How strange. Now that it has been pointed out to him, while the Arbiter can recall several blatantly false boasts, it's clear the marines tend to err on the side of vagueries rather than specifics.
"The lower ranks can be crude when their superiors are out of earshot," the Arbiter acknowledges. "Yet, as a high-ranking member of your corps, are you not in a position of responsibility for those beneath you? Every commander has their own rules of engagement — be it on the battlefield or in social interactions."
"There's laws everyone has to follow; I guess there's a whole section on who people answer to if they have sex with someone up or down the chain of command," Chief says. "But I'm still not going to go and ask Keyes what she likes in bed and change my technique based on that."
"Of course not, Keyes would ask you," the Arbiter says.
Chief tilts his head. "Why?"
"Are you not higher ranking?"
"Technically, no," Chief says. "Plus this is her ship. She can override me to keep it safe even if she were lower-ranked."
"Even though you are more combat capable," the Arbiter muses.
Not all Elite ranks are based on combat skill alone, however, there is a general trend of skill increasing with ranks. There are always those whose fighting ability far outweighs their tactical thinking and those who are sharper than their swords, though those are few and far between. And if Elites weren't able to consider those who were intelligent with no skill to back it up, the Covenant would not have been made with the Hierarchs.
"Your societal roles are less tied up with your military rankings," the Arbiter says. "For Elites, there is an expectation that our commanders will also be both mentor and example."
"So banging me is a political statement?"
"In part," the Arbiter admits. "Though I can separate duty and pleasure and I would not have made any advances if the idea disgusted me."
"Good to know."
There is clearly still more to discuss, however, the Arbiter decides it might be best to think on what he has learnt so far before asking further questions. He wants to understand correctly.
"Hey," Chief says suddenly, "are Elites going to start asking me about sex?"
"There is a small possibility," the Arbiter says. "They will likely ask me first, in case approaching you is seen as an attempt to… steal you, as it were. Be aware that turning their questions back upon them will be seen unfavourably."
"I'll keep that in mind," Chief says. "Anyway," he takes off his helmet and wets his lips, drawing the Arbiter's attention to that amazingly skilled tongue, "speaking of physical acts of intimacy…"
Funerals
The humans held a short funerary event once a month. An hour of speeches broadcast throughout the ship, followed by drinking and merriment for those lucky enough to be off-shift at the time.
The Arbiter attends the formal part of the ceremony for appearance's sake then usually spends the next twenty minutes explaining what of the humans' food and drink is safely consumable to whichever group of Elites have been curious enough to take part. Which often leads to declining bets from drunk marines until he can make his excuses and leave.
This time Chief is there. He stands ramrod straight next to Johnson then vanishes as soon as Commander Keyes finishes her final speech.
The Arbiter follows.
He finds Chief in an empty meeting room, looking out the viewport to starry space. The blue glow of the AI Cortana vanishes as the Arbiter approaches. She will still be listening, no doubt, but the Arbiter appreciates the offer of apparent privacy.
"Are you well?" the Arbiter asks.
Chief pointedly opens his fists and lets out a breath that crackles over his suit speakers in a harsh hiss.
"It just gets awkward when they die fighting alongside me and I don't know anything about them," Chief says. "Their friends always want me to say something about them and I can't. The deaths blur together and I can't care anymore."
"Deaths have often been nothing more than statistical lists to me," the Arbiter says. "The reading of names is new to me."
"It's supposed to help us remember them, I think," Chief says.
"But you do not."
"I'm not sitting here feeling sorry for myself because I can't get sad about marine deaths," Chief says sharply. "Or being miserable because watching people being miserable doesn't make me miserable too."
Whether he realises it or not, Chief has shifted to a ready stance. The Arbiter matches it — even if he trusts that Chief will not hurt him intentionally, there is clearly a lot of anger here and words do not always express everything he wants to say.
"I trust that you know your own mind," the Arbiter says eventually. "And that if you should find yourself in need to discuss what is bothering you, you will consider me."
Chief watches the unmoving stars out the viewport for a long moment.
"Thanks," Chief says, so quietly that the Arbiter nearly misses it.
The Arbiter headbutts him gently, metal on metal.
"You are most welcome." The Arbiter decides to change the subject. "Human bodies are gathered and brought back onboard after battles if the field is clear. Why is that?"
"The UNSC wants to make sure they get their tech back, especially if the Covenant might go picking through the corpses," Chief says. "They cremate them after — to give something more than tags back to their families and save on space. How do Elites do it?"
"Assuming we control the disputed territory, the flesh is flayed from the bone and left for carrion. The bones are entombed on their home planet or, failing that, the battle site where they fell," the Arbiter says. "Though, the Mausoleum of the Arbiter was on High Charity. There the bodies of past Arbiters were enshrined in full — before the Prophets took the title and made the position one of shame."
He doesn't add that now the Flood has control of High Charity it has begun to seem like a bad idea to keep extremely highly capable and tactically-minded complete corpses in one place.
"The training deck should be minimally staffed," the Arbiter says, shaking himself out of the horror. "Would some weapons practise serve well as a distraction?"
Chief nods.
The training rooms are indeed mostly empty. The Arbiter takes them to the end that has targets set up; he could use something to shoot right now.
Switching weapons is always an interesting experience. Human weapons are designed for human hands alone, whereas Covenant weaponry had to be wieldable by a number of alien races at any time. The Covenant was wrong in several ways, but their standardisation of equipment was useful.
The battle rifle fits better than some in the Arbiter's hands, but the trigger is still difficult to pull.
Chief has less trouble with plasma rifles and pistols, however, energy swords still cause a bit of a headache. The one weapon in the Covenant's armouries that Elites refused to let anyone modify.
"They are not designed for asymmetrical hands," the Arbiter says, when the sword Chief is practising with fizzles out. "The pressure on the triggers must be kept even or the blade will short out temporarily."
"That explains why they always last longer for you," Chief says, adjusting his grip and trying to ignite his sword again.
Names
"It's John."
The Arbiter stops moving, confused. Chief was doing most of the work — on top, riding the Arbiter like it was the last thing he was ever going to do — and he slows to a halt when he registers the Arbiter's unspoken question.
"My name," Chief clarifies. "It's John."
The Arbiter wants to reply. He has a name. No, he had a name; it no longer belongs to him. The human fascination with face-to-face intimacy feels wrong. He's exposed. The mark of shame burns. He can't breathe.
He's too vulnerable like this. Turning away is an option, but right now his instincts are screaming at him to not put his back to an enemy.
It's not an enemy. He's not.
He's —
Movement.
The Arbiter lashes out, resorting to biting — like a savage. The Demon pulls his hand back, fresh, red alien blood smeared over the skin.
"Shit," the Demon says. "Hey, Arbiter. Snap out of it."
Focus.
The Arbiter has done this before. Treat it like a debrief with yourself. Outline the situation, recognise your failings, figure out how to do better.
"I was thinking of unpleasant things," the Arbiter says. "My apologies."
"No, shit, that's not what I meant," the Demon — no, don't call him that, he's more than the Covenant's nightmare — says. "Hold up. Let me get off."
Chief slides off the Arbiter, leaving his shaft exposed. The Arbiter pulls himself back in and sits up. He fists the bedsheets, waiting.
"Do you want me to go?" Chief asks.
The Arbiter shakes his head.
"Do you want me to touch you?" Chief asks.
When the Arbiter doesn't reply, Chief makes the decision and settles down in front of him, back to the Arbiter's chest.
"That better?"
The Arbiter winds his arms around Chief, soft human skin and wiry hair such an alien sensation. It helps to ground him. There's a familiar intimacy here and the Arbiter doesn't have to concern himself with his expressions.
"I should not have reacted so poorly to your gift," the Arbiter says.
"I'm guessing you don't have a problem with my name," Chief says. Sometimes he's annoyingly perceptive for someone who's only known they were in a relationship for less than half the time they've been together. "You don't have to tell me yours. I wasn't expecting it."
"I understand."
It's the truth. Vulnerability isn't true vulnerability if there are expectations attached.
"I would like to tell you what I used to be known as, however," the Arbiter pauses and when he flexes his mandibles, the scent of iron-rich blood is obvious. He owes Chief answers for that alone. "However, it is difficult for me to speak of."
Legally, he can't even say his previous name. He is the Arbiter now, nothing more or less.
"Don't sweat it," Chief says. "I don't need to know. Humans like using names instead of ranks during sex, so I've gotten used to that."
"Would you like me to call you John?" The Arbiter asks. It sounds like the word for a small burrowing creature back on his homeworld and will take some getting used to.
"I don't care," Chief says. "Chief works, it's just different. Like alien dick."
The Arbiter nuzzles Chief's shoulders. The iron-tang of blood is slowly replaced by the much more welcome salt-tang of sweat. Chief relaxes into it far more than he used to.
It's nice.
"How is your hand?"
"I've had worse," Chief says.
The Arbiter has become accustomed to his non-responses. Had worse is one of the more positive ones.
"I still owe you recompense," the Arbiter says.
"Only tell me your name if you want to tell me," Chief reiterates.
"I was thinking more along the lines of ensuring your finish," the Arbiter says. "We were in the middle of something after all."
Chief perks up. The Arbiter reaches lower to take Chief's thick warm shaft in his hand. Soon, Chief is moaning against him and thoughts of names and shames have vanished.
+1
An explosion echoes through the quarry. Loose stones tumble down the cliffs and plink against the Arbiter's armour. He prefers solid rock and sand to tripping over tree roots in a jungle, but there is precious little cover in the open savanna outside of this quarry.
He's alone. Separated from his allies and surrounded on all sides. It will not be long before the enemy's pincer movement is complete and they have a clear vantage point from the high quarry edge. They have Wraiths too, no doubt one is making its way to the only entrance.
This will be difficult.
The Arbiter engages his active camouflage. It will not help against a wraith-shot, but it may buy him time as they try to aim.
The quarry walls are steep, however, the stone is chalky and soft in places.
The Arbiter makes it two-thirds of the way up before the first Grunt peeks over the edge. He stops, knowing that movement will draw unwelcome attention.
More enemies peer into the quarry, scanning about for telltale shimmers. The Arbiter needs a distraction and he needs it now.
"On your six." The AI Cortana speaks through the Arbiter's radio link.
It takes him a moment to parse the human saying — Chief has been teaching him their military lingo, but it's hard with the words not always being interpreted correctly by the translator — then the Arbiter scrambles up the cliff face, heedless of the scree he dislodges.
There are shouts from the foes on the opposite side; they've spotted him. A fraught moment as their beam rifles take aim. Then squawks of alarm as Chief appears on the ridge, riding a Mongoose and firing a rocket launcher. The cliffside crumbles, sending several Grunts and Jackals sliding down into the quarry.
The distraction is perfect. The Arbiter gets to the top of the cliff and swings himself up and over with a battle cry and a freshly ignited energy sword. Three Grunts fall before the rest stop staring at the mess happening on the other side of the quarry — Chief has just flung himself off the Mongoose and sent it crashing into a Brute.
And look at that, they were dragging a turret along.
There is little more satisfying in combat than turning an enemy's own weapon against them.
Chief meets up with the Arbiter as the first of their Phantoms shoot overhead, flying interference against the Covenant forces.
"As the one who usually runs off ahead alone: you couldn't have waited for backup?" Chief says, a smile in his voice.
"I saw an opportunity," the Arbiter says, unrepentant. "Thank you for your assistance."
"Anytime," Chief replies. He jerks his thumb at the ugly mess of scrap metal and wires that make up the abandoned Brute vehicle nearby. "You think you can drive that thing?"
"Certainly better than you, given what I have heard of the usual survival rate of your vehicles," the Arbiter says.
Chief punches him in the arm. "More than half of those casualties were Covenant ships."
The Arbiter climbs into the Brute vehicle. He can't adjust the controls, but at least it's sized for someone bigger than him — pressing the correct pedals in a Warthog is an exercise in frustration. Chief perches on one of the parts that doesn't look like it will move and hefts his rocket launcher onto his shoulder.
"Whoever gets the most kills gets to top tonight?" Chief says, cocky in his overconfidence. "And if you total this piece of junk it's minus five for you."
The Arbiter snorts. "We shall see."
He guns the engine and they head toward more combat.