Retirement was a milestone Master Chief never thought he'd reach, the idea of returning to civilian life absolutely terrifying. He's been a Spartan since birth practically, the battlefield now his home, but he's getting older and there's only so much he could do. Even Spartans age. Even Spartans die.

Master Chief just saw it as another part of his life, a semi-important event that headlined his life like his birthday, which he also doesn't really celebrate. But everyone else saw it like Christmas—or Easter more, except he's staying 'dead' with the occasional check-in.

And since his team wanted to celebrate more than him, the best course of action was to apparently drag him to a goddamn club. Yes, a fucking club, the antithesis of everything he is. He's a man of discipline, all rigid lines and authority, not some drunk youth trying to score a night.

It's also way too loud and there's too many lights; thank god they let him keep his armor on. Even with the insistence from his team to wear something else, but that was practically the equivalent of demanding him to be naked.

So now he's uncomfortably pressed into the corner of the couch, lukewarm whiskey sitting idly in his hand. Jesus, the glass was either too small or he's just a giant, his fingers nearly crushing the glass from sheer nerves. He's shaking, not because of fear, oh no, but because he stands out like a sore thumb.

Sure, he's used to the stardom that comes with his rank, how marines cheer when he drops onto the battlefield. But not.. the startled stares of civilian patrons, heads snapping to glance at him whenever they passed by. Because holy shit that's Master Chief, the UNSC's golden boy, sitting like an awkward plank in some club. THEIR club.

Master Chief then actually breaks the glass from shock when he overhears someone from Blue Team order him a fucking escort. He scrambles, his nerves reaching a peak when he quickly moves to pick up the pieces, because fuck, that whiskey cup looked expensive.

“I.. are you out of your damn mind?” Chief grumbles, a bit rougher than he intended. He sighs, shaking his head at himself, the entire ordeal apparently non-refundable. He's sort of apologetic, but it's hard to be fully when they're laughing at his expense.

A joke, they say. His discomfort is a joke. And all he could do is sigh again; it's expected from younger soldiers at this point.

The laughs suddenly come to a cease and Master Chief looks up from the pile of glass, his heart surging in his ears. Because the escort is here, a youthful man who reeks of seduction. His name tag reads, the only thing Chief could focus on without wanting to get up and bolt out.

“Be- be careful. The glass,” he warns, his voice adopting a softer tone. Master Chief was used to being in the spotlight, placed on a pedestal for saving humanity from imminent doom. But not like this, not on the other side of a wanton stare.

He stiffens in his place when the man slides onto his lap, as customary for all escorts. Everyone's looking at him now, watching how his hands awkwardly hover in the air. But only this stranger could feel how much he's fucking shaking, genuinely unsure of what to do.

Of course, he's not a virgin by any means, but the last time he's hooked up with anyone ever was ages ago. And he also didn't have an audience watching his every move, snickering when they sense his nerves. He looks up at the man, his orange visor reflecting his image back at him.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?