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| - Cassandra frowned and tugged the hem of Simon’s poncho. The tattered, faded garment was patched and frayed, weathered by the relentless elements of countless planets. Scraps from what seemed like a dozen different fabrics were sown roughly across its surface, undoubtedly mending the tears and bullet holes and plasma burns inflicted in one firefight after another. She couldn’t help but imagine that each patch and stain told its own story: this blood stain marked a time he’d needed a hasty bandage, while the faded floral pattern on this next scrap was from a time where he’d had to make do with a set of curtains for fabric. There were even a few shimmering patches she recognized as Kig-Yar fabrics, evidence of a time the Chancer V was undoubtedly caught in a spot of trouble inside Covenant space. She’d heard tell of a few Earth cultures that sewed war-quilts to commemorate a history of battles won and lost. She was pretty sure Simon didn’t have that in mind when he draped the ragged cloth over his armor, but who could tell what ran through his head half the time? He’d surprised her before. “Uh, Simon? How long have you been wearing this thing?” “Oh, don’t you start, too.” He leaned back against the bulkhead and grimaced. “I get enough crap over it from Zoey as it is. She keeps saying she’ll wrap my ashes up in it if I ever get blown up. I keep telling people, it keeps sand and other gunk from clogging up my fighting load—“ “Since that time on Venezia, right?” Cassandra interjected. This was mean but she just couldn’t help herself. Besides, she’d been meaning to ask him about the poncho for some time now. “When your armor got stolen and you didn’t have anything to wear. I gave it to you so you could cover yourself up.” Pink blotches broke out over Simon’s pale features and he quickly looked away. One of his hands came up to tug nervously at the back of his hair, though he quickly turned the gesture into an idle scratching motion. “Well, yeah, I guess that’s how it happened. I don’t really remember it that well.” “But you got your armor back in the end.” She was being so mean right now. But it was so rare for anyone to catch Simon with his guard down like this, and besides, she had to know. “I never would have guessed you’d turn that bedsheet into a fashion accessory.” “I told you, it protects my gear…” Simon trailed off, the pink hue in his cheeks deepening. “Wait. Bedsheet?” “Well, yeah. I grabbed it off one of the cots in my clinic when you needed something to cover up with.” His jaw worked furiously as he picked up the corner of his precious cloth and squinted at it. “You’re wrong. It’s a survival blanket. Military issue. See the little UNSC insignia here?” “No, I’m pretty sure I got it out of a UNSC aid container. The box said ‘bedding’ on the side in big letters and everything.” “I thought… I mean…” He looked so genuinely flummoxed that Cassandra started to feel bad for telling him about it. “Why didn’t you say something before?” “I kept meaning to,” she admitted, looking away guiltily. “I just never got around to it. Did you really think it was a survival blanket?” He didn’t answer and instead just stared down at the patchwork “survival blanket”-turned-poncho. A horrible thought occurred to Cassandra and she hurried to make things right. “I won’t tell anybody,” she promised. “You’re not going to stop wearing it over this, are you?” “Of course not.” Simon folded his arms, struggling to regain his composure. “It’s a damn useful bedsheet, even if people like you and Zoey want to be assholes about it. Besides, you gave it to me and I...” He caught himself and shot her a look, half warning, half apology. “You’re really not going to tell anyone?” “Wouldn’t dream of it.” She was always amazed at how quickly he always recovered from being made the fool. It really was mean to tease him like this, though also more amusing than she cared to admit. And she couldn’t fight down the strange warmth that came with having given something that turned out to be so important.
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