Monthly Checkups and Grumpy Soldiers
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The first thing everyone notices about you is the color pink.
Pink scrubs. Pink pens. A pink clipboard covered in tiny pastel stickers—hearts, flowers, and a little cartoon bandage with a smiley face on it.
The second thing everyone notices is that you aren’t afraid of Ghost.
Which, according to the entire base, makes you either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.
You hear the warnings your first week.
Soap leans against the med bay counter one morning while you organize gauze rolls, watching you with mild disbelief. “Ye know who that is, right?”
You glance up from the gauze rolls. “Who?”
“The big skull mask bloke who walks around like death himself.”
Gaz laughs from the doorway. “Lieutenant Ghost. Terrifies recruits for fun..? Breaks doors instead of knocking. That one?”
Soap waits for you to react properly.
You simply shrug. “He seems nice.”
The truth is, you’ve already met him.
It was two days ago. He walked past the med bay after training, boots heavy against the tile, gear slung over one shoulder. He’s massive—broad shoulders, tall enough that the overhead lights catch on the edges of the skull mask he never takes off.
You looked up from your desk.
“Good afternoon..” a pause to look at the name Velcroed to his chest “Lieutenant Riley.”
People don’t greet him like that. You could tell by the way the hallway went quiet.
He stared at you for a moment through the black eye sockets of the mask, eyes dark and unreadable.
His voice was low. Almost.. hesitant?
You nodded politely and went back to writing on your clipboard.
Like it was completely normal.
After that, you greet him every time you see him.
“Hope you’re having a nice day Lieutenant.”
He never smiles—at least not that you can see—but he always gives a small grunt of acknowledgement. That’s enough for you.
What you do notice is that he never shows up to the med bay.
Which is a problem, because everyone is required to attend a monthly checkup.
Soap comes in complaining the whole time. Gaz jokes through the entire exam. Even Captain Price shows up on schedule.
Three days after his appointment passes, you spot him turning the corner of a hallway and nearly run into his chest.
He looks down at you slowly.
Up close he’s even bigger.
You check your pink clipboard.
“You missed your checkup.”
He stares at you through the mask.
You turn the clipboard around so he can see the neat list written in pink ink.
SIMON RILEY — MISSED APPOINTMENT
He exhales slowly through his nose.
You tilt your head a little. “Why?”
The tone clearly says the conversation is over.
So you write something on your clipboard.
He seems surprised by that. Like he expected an argument.
Then you add sweetly, “I’ll just have to keep finding you until you do it.”
You tap the clipboard. “You’re overdue.”
He studies you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking.
So over the next few days, you keep finding him.
In the hallway. Near the training room. Once outside the armory.
Every time, you remind him.
“Your checkup is still overdue, Lieutenant.”
By the fourth time, he finally walks into the med bay himself.
You look up from your desk and brighten immediately.
“Oh! Hi, Lieutenant Riley.”
He sits in the chair like a man being sentenced.
You nod happily. “Of course.”
You move through the exam like you would with anyone else. Pulse first. Your fingers rest lightly against his wrist while you count.
“Heart rate’s good,” you murmur, jotting the numbers down on your pink clipboard.
You reach for your stethoscope next. “Deep breath for me.”
He obeys, shoulders rising slowly.
The med bay is quiet except for your pen scratching across paper.
You don’t rush. You don’t treat him differently.
He’s just another patient.
“Alright,” you say gently after a moment. “Next I need to check your throat.”
There’s a small moment of silence before you ask softly, “Would it be alright if you lifted it just enough for me to see?”
Most people would probably push him. Demand it. Try to force the issue.
You simply stand there patiently.
Eventually his hand lifts to the mask, pulling it up just enough for his mouth to be visible.
You don’t react. Don’t stare.
You lean a little closer with the small penlight. “Open please.”
You check his throat quickly, professional and calm.
“All good.” you say a moment later.
He lowers the mask again.
The rest of the checkup is quick—blood pressure, reflex test, a few more notes on your clipboard.
When you’re finished, you smile.
He stands from the chair.
There’s a brief pause before he gestures toward your scrubs.
“…Pink’s not regulation.”
You glance down at yourself.
You shrug. “Because I like it.”
He stares at you for a quiet second longer, eyes unreadable behind the skull mask.
Then he turns toward the door.
The word comes out rough. Quiet.
You watch him leave before looking down at your clipboard and writing the final note beneath his name in pink ink.
SIMON RILEY — MONTHLY CHECKUP
You tap your pen thoughtfully before adding—
Very grumpy. But cooperative.
Then doodle a tiny pink heart next to it.
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