"Dirty Job"

By kpmh2001

The M12 Force Application Vehicle, affectionately called the Warthog by those who crewed her, was the most recognizable part of the UNSC's vehicle fleet. It was big, powerful, sturdy, and fast; a vehicle well known for its dependability and durability both on and off of the battlefield. Even so, every piece of military equipment required diligent maintenance, no matter how reliable it was.

Such was the ubiquity of the Warthog that every single person in the UNSC, regardless of role or rank, was required to be familiar with its operation and maintenance. There were those, however, who were technicians specifically trained for the maintenance of the UNSC's vehicle fleet. Warrant Officer Valerie Jones was, she reminded herself with an annoyed huff, typically busy stitching up Pelicans and Hornets. Today, she had a slightly more mundane vehicle to work with, albeit one that presented no less of a challenge.

The Warthog that she'd been handed came courtesy of Sierra Platoon, some of the last of the Spirit of Fire's Orbital Drop Shock Troopers. A trio of them, led by a man named Fred, had blown through a Banished roadblock in the vehicle. While they'd all somehow escaped the battle unscathed, the same could not be said for their Warthog.

"Gunshield needs replacing and the applique armor on the engine's cooked. Suspension looks fine, but there's at least one more fuel leak, just need to find where…" Val jotted down everything on her datapad, making sure nothing got forgotten or overlooked before she began her work.

Mundane as the paperwork was, it had saved her from making mistakes in the past, and it was a good way to keep track of just how much needed fixing. By the time she'd reached a fourth page of recorded issues, she spared a doubtful look at the Warthog. Other technicians had written vehicles off as totaled for less and shipped them off to the foundries to be recycled for parts, but Val was feeling sentimental. This rig had taken a beating and come out the other side in one piece… well, mostly. It was a fighter, and after a second glance Val was pretty sure that she could save this particular Warthog, even if it took a bit of extra time.

"Eesh, where'd you drag that one in from?" a familiar man's voice greeted her.

She turned to see one of the Spirit of Fire's many Pelican Pilots, Captain Paul Hansen, who gave her a friendly smile as he walked up to her side. She gave a small smile in turn before turning back to her work. He was a good friend… perhaps a lot more than that. She always welcomed his company.

"Sierra Platoon," she simply answered, prompting a nod of understanding from Hansen.

"Yeah… I think all of their stuff looks like this," he said. A few moments stretched between them in companionable silence before Hansen spoke up again, his tone slightly more serious now. "You look tense."

"Everyone is," Val replied tersely. There wasn't a soul on board the Spirit of Fire who wasn't overworked. Between the steady attrition of personnel that they'd suffered since Harvest, and the workload forced upon them by constant combat, she couldn't remember the last time that she'd had a break.

When she glanced over her shoulder and saw the slight frown turning the pilot's lips downward, Val felt slightly guilty. He had merely been making conversation, after all. "I've actually got a knot in my left shoulder that I can't reach," she said casually, offering an olive branch. "Think you can get it?"

"Sure," Hansen said, standing behind her as he ran his thumbs across the back of her shoulder. He had a strong grip, although she found it fairly easy to relax under his touch. He grinned as Val let out a subconscious groan as his fingers brushed against every stiff muscle in her shoulders - which was to say, every muscle in her shoulders - until they found purchase on a particularly raised clump of distressed tissue. "Damn, you weren't kidding. Hang on… is this it?"

About a second later, she felt her shoulder loosen up substantially, and let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks," she hummed contentedly as he finished working through the stiffened muscle, "that was killing me."

"Anytime," he said with a smile. Then he gestured to the Warthog with his chin and asked, "Want me to stick around and lend a hand with this?"

With a scoff of amusement, Val looked over what he was wearing. Between his bomber jacket and aviators, he was clearly not dressed for maintenance work. "What, in that nice clean coat of yours?" she jibed.

"I can get it washed," Hansen said with a shrug. "Is that a no?"

"Just lookin' out for your fashion sense, that's all," Val cheekily answered. "Still, I'd appreciate the help… Sierra Platoon wants this back in two days, and they'll be lucky to have it in three."

Paul's eyebrows narrowed in slight annoyance. "Seems a bit unreasonable. You're here working on this thing by yourself, and they still want it back that quickly? When it's in this shape?"

"I try not to judge them too much," Val spoke up in defense of the Helljumpers. "I know things are getting worse on the ground for them every day. We're short on personnel up here, but I know it's a lot worse down there. Every bit of gear matters, and Warthogs save lives."

"That's… a very fair point, didn't consider it was that bad for 'em," Paul replied, a slightly troubled look on his face. "Where do you need me?"

"I need to know where this fuel is leaking from," Val answered, pointing to the growing puddle on the floor. "I know there's at least two leaks. One's somewhere between the tank and the engine along the main line, but I'm not sure exactly where. The other's a mystery, might be in the hydrogen generator."

"Simple enough," Hansen nodded and grabbed a socket wrench from a nearby tool cart, before setting to work removing one of the battered access panels from the hood. The majority of the hood had been crushed, burned, shot, and torn apart, but at least one panel had held sturdy. "Look at all this!" he cried out dramatically, curling his lips in mock disgust. "This is why I prefer flying; it's much safer."

Val rolled her eyes. "Well now, that's a load of rubbish. You and I both know that you draw fire better than any other pilot on the Spirit. I think every Vampire pilot back on the shield world had it out for you."

"Yeah, but in a Pelican I can dodge 'em, not in one of these," Hansen casually replied as he removed the access panel. He had barely managed to bare the Warthog's innards before he remarked, "Oh, well there's your problem."

Mentally bracing herself for what she'd find, Val walked over to his side and got a look at the damage. At a glance it wasn't that bad, and it was easy to see why she'd missed the issue. There was a small hole a few millimeters across, seemingly burned through one end of the engine and out of the other. By the looks of things, it had managed to punch through the fuel line, at least one of the pistons, and probably a few other critical components. Suddenly, Fred managing to drive the Warthog back at all was considerably more impressive.

"Beam rifle," she noted, immediately writing the engine off in her head. "Mind getting a requisition put in for a new engine? I'll get this one out of here."

"Can't fix it?" Paul asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise at her quick surrender to the mangled machinery. Despite his spoken doubts, he immediately set to work doing as she'd asked, and filling out the requisite form on her datapad.

"Not quickly," she answered as she briskly strode over to one of the maintenance cranes. She couldn't help but toss a smirk over her shoulder at her companion and add, "Although, it's nice to know you think I'm that good."

Hansen briefly looked up from his datapad to flash her a winning grin. "You are that good. I've flown back from missions with holes across half of my Pelican, and you've still turned me around in less than twelve hours. You've just gotta have a little faith in yourself."

"Oh no, I can't do that," Val dryly replied as she wheeled the crane over, before locking it to the deck. "The Spirit of Fire is a big ship… but even she's not big enough for both of us to have an ego."

The pilot heartily chuckled. "Oh yeah? I'll just have to give mine up then."

"You really shouldn't go making promises to a woman that you can't keep, Captain," she playfully replied, tossing him one more good-humored smirk before turning back to the Warthog. "Here, can you get the hood open?"

Paul briefly spared a doubtful look at the absolutely mangled hood of the Warthog, then at his socket wrench. "Uh, not with this." he said firmly, turning to Val with a shrug. "Got a saw?"

Val gave it a brief degree of thought, examining the damage before an idea struck. "You might be a bit better off with a crowbar, to be honest. That titanium's burnt so badly it'll probably come right off. I can get the rest once we've got the engine out."

"Good point," Hansen replied, grabbing a large crowbar from her tool bench and setting to work on the first bit of blackened scrap metal. Predictably, it came loose pretty much immediately… along with the entire oil filter that was directly beneath it. A small geyser of fowl black gunk erupted, thoroughly coating Hansen's chest.

"Ah… fuckin'... gah!" Hansen swore as he backed off, holding his hands out in a vain attempt to shield himself. Val desperately tried not to laugh, before giving up and cackling at his expense. Hansen pouted as he looked down at his thoroughly-soiled jacket. "Very funny."

"Told you it was dirty work," Val replied in-between laughs. The small fountain of oil died down almost immediately, and she gave him a sly grin. "Feel like getting the rest of it?"

Hansen spared one last mournful look at his jacket before shrugging. "Ah, might as well," he said, dropping the pout in favor of his trademark casual confidence.

"Never would've taken you for a man afraid to get a little filthy," Val noted, turning from her work just long enough to cast him a flirtatious wink.

Paul paused, as though processing her words for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. "I don't recall saying I was…"

She gave a soft chuckle in reply. "Ah, but I recall seeing you scramble away whilst swearing like a sailor. Actions speak louder than words, you know."

"Ah, well," Hansen remarked casually, waving his hand to dismiss her teasing. "I'm not afraid of the dirt, I was just annoyed because I wanted to look good for you. Why else do you think I'm spending my time off with you?" he asked with a sly smile as he pried another piece of scrap metal off of the Warthog.

Val fought the urge to blush as she replied, "How very romantic, is this your idea of a date then?"

"Only if it is for you," he answered. "I've always preferred a nice steak dinner myself."

"Hmph, I'll bet. You'll have a hard time finding any decent restaurants around here though. The Brutes have no taste," Val joked back. "I guess we've got something to look forward to once we get home."

"That we do," Hansen affirmed, before giving her a playful look. "And until then?"

Val briefly pretended to think it over. "I can think of a few things we can do to pass the time… just as long as you're sure you don't mind getting filthy," she teased, a mischievous smile turning up the corners of her mouth.

Paul's grin only widened. "I'll be looking forward to it."

"I'll bet," she slyly replied. "Now pick your jaw up off the floor. We've got some work to do before we can get to the fun stuff."

Hansen offered her a mock salute and barked, "Yes, Ma'am!"

Although it was clearly a joke, it was also technically a breach in protocol given how far he outranked her. Still, Val couldn't help but smile in response. "Keep that up," she said with a wink. "I like the sound of it."

Against all odds, that actually earned a slight blush forming in Hansen's cheeks. Val enjoyed the view of the flustered pilot for just a moment before turning back to the poor, abused machinery. She had some work to do.

Author's note: I wrote this fic as a birthday for my friend AlphaSpartan. Special thanks to BrownCoat for the editing work on this one as well!