AN: Thought I was done with this one-shot, but after doing some reading of Ladywolvesbayne's lovely RECOMPOSE story, I was inspired to write some more good old John/Cortana. Just pure fluff for now - plot may happen later, but no promises. Enjoy!

Chapter 2 - Stubborn

She didn't believe in archetypes; human beings were far too complex creatures to be reduced down to well-drawn parametres and classic character traits. Nothing, especially not the human mind, could be made to fit into a neatly labelled box—something unique and perplexing always oozed out. Psychology would be a dead science if humanity could be defined in such simple, set terms.

She'd always found human nature extraordinary, and ever since she first interfaced with John's mind her interest had only grown. She had employed all her knowledge on human behaviour to analyse his actions, his thought patterns, and his decisions—quietly, of course. Spartans didn't like psychologists much, especially the ONI-branded ones. Not that she could blame them.

One thing that always amazed her about him was his inability to give up. No matter the odds, the obstacles or seemingly life-threatening challenges, he'd never once packed it in. If anything, stacked odds only made him more determined to complete his goal. It was one of the many things she admired about him.

At times, however, his tenacity made her question his intentions. Sometimes, his actions in a non-combat setting were committed for more human reasons than patriotism—chiefly, out of pride and, surprisingly enough, vanity.

"Chief? You alright in there?" she called, standing just before the threshold of the Spartan bathrooms.

"I'm fine."

"I'm fine," she mocked, trying unsuccessfully to imitate the deep, sharp flow of his speech. "—said the Master Chief on his deathbed."

"I'm not dying," she heard him reply, sotto voce, not understanding the joke.

She rolled her eyes, but ignored the comment. Cortana risked a peek inside and saw that his back was to her, blocking her view of the sink mirror he stood in front of. He was clothed only in off-duty pants, and she saw the smear of shaving cream just below his ears.

"I can help, you kn—"

"No." His left arm struggled to rise to shoulder length—trying to reach his face. She heard him grunt, blow a hard breath out his nose, then drop the arm back to his side.

"You do understand what you're trying to do is not physically possible with your injury, correct?"

He moved so that she could see his face in the mirror. His eyes narrowed to a glare, clearly directed at her standing in the doorframe, but he chose not to respond.

He was armed with a razor and shaving cream. Given the state of his shoulder and collarbone, she was surprised he had the strength to curl his fingers. He'd been helping the Spartan-IVs scout when they had encountered Forerunner opposition. Nothing too dangerous given his experience, but the enemy had destroyed a vehicle bay during the firefight and successfully landed a warthog on top of him in the process. Her jokes about the Master Chief being taken out by a stationary vehicle had gone largely ignored by him, with the exception of a few dirty looks.

Now he faced an even greater challenge—lifting his gauze-swathed arm above shoulder level to shave the stubble prickling his jaw, cheeks and neck. With how fair his hair was he could probably get away with leaving it alone for another day or two, but in all her time working with Chief she'd never known him to waive military protocol.

"Just let me help," she said. "It'll look worse if you've got cuts and stray hair all over your face."

She watched his face in the mirror, measuring her proposal. Cortana could see he agreed with her—how could he not?—but the idea of giving up any form of independence, especially physical, was a struggle for him.

Apparently Del Rio's comment about his age bothered him more than she realised.

Then his brows drew together and he gave a slight shrug of his good shoulder, placing the razor down on the edge of the sink in resigned defeat.

She grinned and entered the washrooms. He was up well before the other Spartans, so the facilities were empty besides the two of them. And even if it wasn't early, the IVs tended to give him a wide berth.

Cortana would be sleeping too if not for troubling dreams. Her organic transition hadn't dulled her memories of the Gravemind—if anything, the jumbled, frantic images and pops of colour and movement that constituted dreams made it more frightening in its narrow stream of focus.

So instead she was trying her hand at shaving a Spartan's face. Not a disagreeable alternative, she thought.

Cortana approached him, observing the broad figure in front of her—the skin not covered by bandages was still slightly damp from the shower, and dewed water clung to his short auburn hair. She tried not to eyeball his sparsely clothed figure too much and reached for the razor beside him. Then she craned her neck to look up at his foam-painted features staring back down at her, suddenly wondering if it was physically possible for her to help him shave, either.

"You'll need to lower your face a little," she said. "I can't reach you from up there."

He took a knee in front of her without comment, placing them both at face level. "Much better." She nodded in approval, then raised the razor. To her surprise his head tilted away from her hand, his eyes wary.

"What?" she asked, but didn't wait for a response. "I've done this before."

"You shaved your face?"

"No," she replied patiently. "Other body parts. But it's the same principle."

He conceded the point with a nod and returned to a more natural position, and she gave a tentative first swipe down the side of his left cheek. Cortana pulled the blades away and looked down at the mix of foam and stubble, then swished it in the water of the sink behind him.

"There, not so bad, is it?" She continued, smoothing the razor down his skin with as much precision as she could manage. Her fingers began to get sticky from the shaving cream, and small rivulets of water droplets rolled down her arms to soak into her rolled-up sleeves. The sound of the razor smoothing over his skin was oddly soothing, and at some point she noticed John close his eyes. It was the closest thing she'd seen to a look of pleasure from him, like a sleepy cat purring over being groomed.

When she decided she'd gotten the last of the stubble from his face, she ran a hand over his jaw and down his neck. He flinched and opened his eyes, surprised at the contact.

"Just checking for any rogue hairs," she assured him. "But it looks like I've done an excellent job."

"As always," he replied. He turned with a silent grace to grab for a towel and stood up in one fluid motion, becoming massive and unreachable again, missing the blush on her cheeks in the process.

"Thank you," he said, voice slightly muffled by the towel wiping his face dry. He tossed it in a nearby hamper and smoothed a passing hand over his features in reflex to do a quick check himself. "I have to meet with the captain in twenty minutes."

Her heart sank. Meetings with Lasky usually meant another assignment—the kind that made him disappear for a week and come back dirty and exhausted, sometimes with much fewer soldiers.

"Not about anything earth-shattering, I hope."

His head tilted to one side in agreement, though his silence meant he was just as uninformed as she was on the matter. Just as well—it could only be about an upcoming engagement with the enemy—likely Forerunner—or another argument for why he should just goddamn commission already and become an officer. She smiled faintly at the thought; another thing he stoically refused to cave on. He'd live and die an NCO.

Cortana sighed then, realising their time together was up for now at least, and looked back to the exit of the bathrooms. "I'll get back to the labs with Halsey, then. Let me know what's happening, if you can."

"Always." He moved past her towards his locker, preparing to slip into the charcoal undersuit that was the uniform of all Spartans—even though he was technically Navy, but no one had the courage to point that out to him—and promptly stepped out of his off-duty pants. She took that as her cue to leave and slipped out of the washrooms and Spartan barracks quickly, before she could be tempted to linger around a dangerously unclothed John.