The Arbiter is one of the few people in the galaxy that could actually visibly piss the Master Chief off, because somehow, this Sangheili's able to read him as well as his Spartan siblings could - other *humans* haven't even been able to do that. And this sets off the man more acutely than anything he's ever experienced - which says a lot, given his service record.

This bastard who glassed Reach, whose forces he fought on 04, a mastermind behind the slaughter of billions...

And he's jumping in front of plasma bolts to save retreating, injured Marines. He, whose sins pile higher than any being could ever hope to climb, is climbing anyways. Swiftly and viciously quelling any unruly subordinates that question the authority of the humans they're placed under command of. Uncaring to the futile joke of redemption he'll never reach; hewing the foundation of an alliance that may never see construction; toiling in the fields of atonement regardless of how hard and lifeless the soil...

John can't help but admire the tenacity.

...it reminds him uncomfortably of himself.

He sees the regret, the remorse, the sorrow in those bronze eyes whenever the past actions of the Covenant darken the door of the present. How carefully he regards wounded humans, despite his culture who sneers at those who cannot heal on their own. How he works to adopt human-like compassion in the ethos of his command structures, dutifully asking for and taking the strategic advice of his human counterparts despite the loud protest of his command staff.

Maybe...

Maybe this could actually lead somewhere, this hopeless notion of peace. Maybe this seed isn't doomed to rot in barren ground.

Maybe all it needs is water. Sunlight.

A chance.

John notices the Arbiter walking from his own briefing, rallying his own troops for the next deployment. His armor still bears the scorch marks from the bolts he tanked to get Marines to safety.

John can't stop himself as he pauses, the Arbiter mirroring the action, bird-like eyes regarding him curiously. Narrowed with uncertainty. Under the helmet, John can see the purpling bruise blossoming at his eye socket. Remnant from their brutal sparring session just days prior.

John reaches up a hand and lays it heavy on Thel's pauldron, now sagging with the weight of the MJOLNIR gauntlet.

"Good work out there." Bronze eyes brighten to gold, widening with surprise. John holds the contact for a brief moment before dropping the hand and brushing past. Thel turns and stares after him, dumbfounded, but eyes brimming with something unreadable.

"It will not be the last you give me!" He calls after. John stops, not following. He turns back to look at the Arbiter, head cocked a fraction of a degree in question.

"Of what?" Thel hums, a short, huffing sound.

"Your praise. I will endeavor to earn more of your good graces." Stunned, John takes a moment to process. When he does, he just shakes his head and turns to continue walking away. He flicks up two fingers in a wave-like gesture.