Chapter Text
Y/N
The rain smears the streetlights into blurry halos outside your window as you juggle a damp paper bag and your keys. Inside, the apartment is warm and smells faintly of vanilla and cat fur. You barely have your shoes off before a weight hits your ankles— then another.
"I'm back, I'm back," you murmur, stepping over the two furry obstacles tripping over your feet. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter and pull out the thick, cream-coloured envelope you've been clutching like a prize.
This is it. The Soldier's Connection program. You'd signed up on a whim, thinking it was just a nice way to do some good, but seeing the official seal of the North American Branch of the BSAA makes your heart give a nervous little skip.
You head to the sofa, sinking into the cushions. One of your cats leaps up immediately, tucking herself into the crook of your knee, her purr a steady vibration against your leg. You tear the envelope open.
Inside is a brief instructional sheet and a single, crisp piece of lined paper.
Assignment Notice: Volunteer: [Your Name] Service Member: Nivans, Piers. First Lieutenant, Alpha Team.
Note: Please find the introductory correspondence from your assigned partner below. Responses should be postmarked within seven days.
You pull out the handwritten note. The penmanship is neat— surprisingly so— with sharp, disciplined angles.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Piers Nivans. I'm a First Lieutenant with the BSAA. To be honest, my Captain insisted our unit participate in this program to 'boost morale' and 'maintain ties to the civilian world.' I usually keep busy enough that I don't have much time for hobbies, so I wasn't sure what to write here. I'm currently stationed at a base in the Edonian foothills. It's cold, the coffee is terrible, and the terrain is nothing but rocks and grey sky. But it's the job, and I'm proud to be here.
I don't expect you to understand the technical side of what we do, and you don't have to feel obligated to say anything profound. Just tell me something normal. Tell me what the weather is like where you are, or what you had for dinner. Anything that isn't a SITREP.
Respectfully,
Piers Nivans
You read it twice. He sounds polite, but there's a distinct stiffness there— the tone of a man who is doing this because he was told to, not because he thinks he needs a friend. He sounds lonely without realising he is.
You reach for your laptop, but stop. No, he sent a handwritten note. It feels right to send one back. You grab a gel pen and a fresh sheet of stationery, shifting your cat slightly so you have a flat surface on your lap.
You take a breath, the tip of the pen hovering over the paper.
The scratch of the pen against the paper is the only sound in the apartment, aside from the purr against your thigh. You stare at the blank white space, your mind racing. Piers Nivans. First Lieutenant. Sounds very official. Very "I-wear-combat-boots-to-bed."
You click your pen, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
Dear Lieutenant Nivans,
You stop. No, that's too stiff. He's already stiff enough for both of you. You scribble it out, the black ink thick and messy.
Dear Piers,
That's better.
First off, I should probably apologise for the ink blotch above. I was going to call you "Lieutenant," but you sounded so serious in your note that I felt like I needed to stand at attention just to read it. I'm currently sitting on my sofa in fuzzy socks, so "Piers" feels a lot more manageable.
A paw suddenly bats at the end of your pen. You pull it back, but the movement only makes it more enticing. A soft, orange head ducks under your hand, bumping your wrist and sending a jagged black line skating across the middle of the paragraph.
"Hey! No, we're being helpful, remember?" you chide, gently nudging the cat away. She just blinks at you, tail twitching with predatory intent.
I also have to apologise for that giant lightning bolt of a line in the middle of the page. That was courtesy of my cat, Mango. She's decided that your letter is actually a toy, and my pen is the enemy. She's currently judging me for not having any 'profound' things to say yet.
You lean back, tapping the pen against your chin. He wanted normal? You can do normal.
You asked about the weather— well, it's currently the kind of grey that makes you want to stay in bed until next July. It's raining, the kind of drizzle that hangs in the air to make sure your hair is ruined the second you step outside. It sounds like Edonia might be a bit more dramatic, though. Rocks and grey skies? Sounds like the backdrop of a very moody indie film.
As for dinner, I'm gonna have a grilled cheese sandwich that I definitely won't burn this time. So, if it makes you feel any better, the civilian world has its own casualties. Usually involving sourdough and too much cheddar.
Another weight lands on the back of the sofa, right behind your head. A soft mrrp sounds in your ear, followed by the feeling of cold, wet nose pressing against your temple. Your second cat, Toast, has arrived to inspect the progress.
Now I have two of them. I'm currently being surrounded. If this letter ends abruptly, please send a rescue team to my apartment. Tell Captain Redfield—that's your Captain, right? I think I saw the name on the pamphlet—that his 'morale boost' program is currently being sabotaged by two five-pound felines.
You pause, looking at the letter. It's messy, informal, and definitely not what a First Lieutenant is used to seeing on an official SITREP. You smile, feeling a little bit of the nervousness melt away.
I know you said you don't 'need' a buddy and that you're only doing this because you were told to. That's okay. I signed up because I wanted to talk to someone who lives a life completely different from mine. Although, based on your coffee comment, I think I have the advantage. I'm currently drinking a latte that actually tastes like coffee and not... whatever 'dirt water' they're serving you in the foothills.
I'll try to keep the 'normal' updates coming, as long as you promise not to report my cats for insubordination.
Stay warm out there, Piers. Don't let the rocks win.
Best,
[Your Name] (and Mango & Toast)
You set the pen down, letting out a breath. The ink is still wet on the jagged line Mango made, reflecting the lamp light. It's not perfect, but it's as normal as it's going to get. You fold the paper carefully, sliding it into the return envelope.
Outside, the rain picks up, drumming a steady beat against the glass. You look down at the two cats now curled into a single ball of fur at your feet.
"Okay," you whisper. "Let's see if the Lieutenant has a sense of humour."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
PIERS
The air in the Edonian foothills gnaws. It is a persistent, wet chill that seeps through the seams of tactical gear and settles deep into the marrow.
Inside the makeshift BSAA command center— a repurposed concrete warehouse that smells of stale air, diesel, and the bitter, burnt scent of high-grade antiseptic— First Lieutenant Piers Nivans is currently losing a battle against a mountainous stack of inventory reports.
He sits at a folding metal table that wobbles every time he shifts his weight. A single flickering halogen bulb hums overhead, casting long, tired shadows across his face. He rubs the bridge of his nose, his thumb catching on the edge of his headset. He hasn't slept more than four hours in the last forty-eight, and the lines of text on his tablet are beginning to swim like digital static.
"Nivans."
Piers looks up, blinking back the fatigue. Captain Chris Redfield is standing a few feet away, looking equally exhausted but wearing that characteristic, immovable expression of a man who hasn't seen a civilian bed in months. He tosses a small, light object toward the table.
Piers catches it out of the air with practiced ease. It's a white envelope. In a sea of olive drab, slate grey, and tactical black, the stark white paper looks almost alien.
"The morale program," Chris says, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "The mail run just came in from the regional hub. Looks like your 'buddy' is a fast worker."
Piers sighs, looking down at the envelope. "Captain, with all due respect, I'm currently tracking three potential bio-signature anomalies and trying to figure out why Alpha Team is suddenly short four cases of 9mm rounds. I don't exactly have the bandwidth for pen pals."
"Consider it an order, Piers," Chris says, clapping him on the shoulder as he walks past. "The brass wants to make sure we haven't forgotten what 'normal' looks like. Read the letter. Take ten minutes. That's an order."
Piers watches his Captain disappear into the communications tent before looking back at the envelope. His name is written on the front in a fluid, slightly hurried hand. It's a far cry from the blocky, standardised font of a military SITREP.
He reaches for a tactical knife on his belt to slit the top, but pauses. That feels too aggressive. Instead, he uses his thumb, carefully prying the flap open.
As he pulls out the sheet of stationery, the first thing he notices isn't the words. It's the smell. It doesn't smell like gun oil or damp concrete. It smells like something faint and sweet— vanilla, maybe? Or just the clean scent of a home that isn't currently a combat zone. It catches him off guard, a sudden, sharp pang of nostalgia tightening his chest before he even reads a single word.
Then, he sees the strike-through.
He huffs a small breath of amusement through his nose. Dear Lieutenant Nivans is crossed out with a messy, unapologetic series of loops. Below it, simply: Dear Piers.
He leans back, the metal chair creaking loudly in the quiet warehouse.
"...you sounded so serious in your note that I felt like I needed to stand at attention just to read it. I'm currently sitting on my sofa in fuzzy socks, so 'Piers' feels a lot more manageable."
Piers feels his shoulders drop an inch. He hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding them. Fuzzy socks. He looks down at his heavy, mud-caked combat boots. The contrast is so absurd it's almost painful. He can picture it— a quiet living room, a soft sofa, someone who isn't worried about the perimeter integrity or the next thermal scan.
And then, he sees the "lightning bolt."
His eyes track the jagged, frantic black line that scars the middle of the page. He reads the explanation about Mango, the cat-turned-saboteur, and for the first time in three weeks, Piers Nivans actually laughs.
It's a short, genuine bark of a laugh that startles a technician working at a nearby console. Piers doesn't care. He's too busy reading about the "casualties" of the civilian world— the burned grilled cheese and the tragedy of ruined hair.
"Sourdough and too much cheddar," he mutters to himself, the words tasting like a luxury.
He reads the part about the "five-pound felines" and the warning to Captain Redfield. He imagines presenting this to Chris during their next briefing. 'Sir, we have a breach in the morale sector. The culprit is a cat named Mango. Requesting immediate backup in the form of catnip.'
By the time he reaches the end— the mention of the "dirt water" coffee and the plea not to let the rocks win— the fatigue that had been weighing him down feels lighter. It's not gone, but it's shifted.
He looks at the signature. Your name.
He stares at the paper for a long moment. He should go back to the inventory. He should check the 9mm count again. He should get a head start on the thermal maps for tomorrow's scouting mission.
Instead, his legs move before he's fully decided to stand.
He finds himself walking toward his bunk in the corner of the warehouse, his pace brisk and purposeful. He isn't walking with the heavy tread of a soldier on patrol; he's moving like a man with a deadline he actually cares about.
He reaches his footlocker and digs through his rucksack until he finds his weather-proof notebook and a decent pen— not the one he uses for official logs, but a gel pen he'd picked up at the airport in Europe.
He sits on the edge of his cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort, and clears a space on the small crates he uses as a bedside table. He ignores the buzzing of his tablet. He ignores the distant sound of a helicopter taking off from the pad outside.
He clicks the pen. The sound is sharp, decisive.
Piers looks at your letter one more time, his eyes lingering on the smudge where a cat's paw had interrupted a sentence. A small, lopsided smile stays fixed on his face.
Okay, [Your Name], he thinks. Let's talk about the coffee.
He touches the pen to the paper, the ink flowing smoothly as he begins to write, his hand moving with a newfound energy that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with a pair of fuzzy socks and two cats named after breakfast foods.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Y/N
The bell above the door of The Daily Grind chimes with a cheerful, brassy ring that feels entirely too bright for a Tuesday morning. You're currently a walking personification of "needs more caffeine," balancing a steaming oat milk latte in one hand and a thick, manila envelope in the other.
The rain from yesterday has settled into a stubborn, grey mist, and the coffee shop is packed with people seeking sanctuary. You manage to snag a tiny, wobbly bistro table in the back corner— far enough from the door to avoid the draft, but close enough to a lamp to read.
Setting your latte down, you pull the envelope closer. The BSAA logo is becoming a familiar sight, but today, there's a smudge of dried, reddish-brown mud on the corner of the paper. It's a stark reminder that this letter traveled from a place where "mud" is likely the least of anyone's worries.
You take a slow, deliberate sip of your coffee, letting the heat settle your nerves, and then you slide the letter out.
It isn't official stationery this time. It's a page torn from a rugged, spiral-bound field notebook— the kind with the waterproof, gridded paper. The handwriting is still neat, but it looks faster, more energised, as if he’d been itching to get the words down before someone called him away to save the world.
Dear [Your Name],
First of all, I’ve officially logged your apology regarding the 'Lieutenant' title. While I appreciate the sentiment of standing at attention, I think the fuzzy socks are probably a more tactical choice for civilian life. I've never seen a pair of fuzzy socks in the field, but I'm tempted to suggest them to R&D. We could call them 'Thermal Stealth Footwear.'
Please tell Mango that her 'lightning bolt' has been analysed by BSAA Intelligence. My Captain actually walked by while I was reading it, but I showed him afterwards and he asked if I was looking at a topographical map of a jagged mountain range. When I told him it was a cat-induced sabotage, he didn't even blink. He just said, 'Remind her that the BSAA doesn't negotiate with terrorists, even the five-pound variety.'
You snort into your latte, a bit of foam catching on your upper lip. You can almost see the scene— this high-level military commander being told about Mango's antics and taking it completely in stride.
As for the grilled cheese incident... [Your Name], I'm a First Lieutenant. I'm trained to assess risks and mitigate disasters. I have to tell you, burning the sourdough is a serious breach of kitchen protocol. However, Ill grant you a one-time pass since you were distracted by my 'seriousness.' Just don't let it happen again, or I might have to send a cooking manual along with my next SITREP.
You're right about the coffee. Calling what we have here 'dirt water' is actually an insult to dirt. It's more like battery acid filtered through a dirty gym sock. I'd trade a month's combat pay for one sip of whatever latte you're currently holding. If it tastes like real coffee, cherish it. Protect it. It's a high-value asset.
You look down at your cup, feeling a sudden, strange sense of guilt for the luxury of it. You take another sip, imagining Piers sitting on a crate in some cold, grey mountain range, dreaming of a latte.
The 'moody indie film' description of Edonia is pretty accurate. It's all sharp edges and shadows out here. But having a letter that mentions things like 'Toast' and 'Mango' makes the grey look a little less... Oppressive. It's a weird feeling, getting a report on breakfast foods while I'm checking my ammunition counts, but I think I like it.
I'll take your advice, though. I won't let the rocks win. But you have to promise to keep the cats under control. I don't want to have to report back to HQ that my primary civilian contact has been taken hostage by a pair of cats.
By the way, tell me something else 'normal.' What's the most boring thing you did today? Give me the details. I need something to think about during the 0300 watch that isn't thermal signatures or wind speed.
Stay safe (and keep the sourdough away from the flame).
— Piers
You lean back in your chair, the letter resting against your chest. There's a warmth spreading through you that has nothing to do with the coffee. He's funny. Behind the "First Lieutenant" and the "Alpha Team" labels, there's a guy who clearly appreciates the absurdity of life.
You pull a fresh notebook out of your bag, the pen already in your hand. The most boring thing? You can give him boring. You can give him the most mundane, wonderfully ordinary details of your life until he feels like he's sitting right there on the sofa with you.
A stray drop of rain from your coat lands on the gridded paper, smearing the 'P' in his signature. You quickly dab it dry with your sleeve.
"Okay, Piers," you whisper, a small smile playing on your lips. "Let's talk about the grocery store line and why the lady in front of me had fourteen different types of yogurt."
You start writing, the pen flying across the page, already looking forward to the next time a mud-smudged envelope finds its way into your mailbox.
The paper of your notebook feels almost too plain for the response you have brewing in your head. You take a final, lingering sip of your latte— the "high-value asset," as Piers called it— and decide that if he wants a report on the mundane, you're going to give him the most charmingly boring report he’s ever read.
But first, the visual evidence.
You check to make sure the barista isn't looking, then prop your phone up against a sugar shaker. You smooth your hair, lean your cheek against your hand, and hold the coffee cup so the steam curls just right. You give the camera a small, playful smirk— the kind that says I know you're stuck with battery acid and I’m definitely rubbing this in.
Click.
It's perfect. You look soft, the shop looks cozy, and the contrast to his "rocks and grey sky" is going to be devastating.
You pick up your pen, the ink flowing as fast as your thoughts.
Dear Piers (Tactical Stealth Footwear Consultant),
I hope you’re sitting down, because I’m about to file a report so boring it might actually qualify as a sedative. You asked for it.
Today's primary objective was surviving the grocery store. I spent ten minutes trapped behind a woman who was having a genuine existential crisis over fourteen different types of yogurt. Do I go with Greek? Probiotic? Does the strawberry-guava blend reflect my inner soul? I almost stepped in to perform a tactical intervention, but I figured you'd prefer I stay out of civilian combat zones.
Also, I should report that the rain has transitioned from 'moody indie film' to 'shoggy basement.' My hair currently looks like I tried to fight a hairdryer and lost. Miserably.
Since you're so worried about my 'sourdough casualties' and my hostage situation with the feline terrorists, I thought I'd send a little proof of life. I'm including a photo of that 'high-value asset' I mentioned. Yes, that is real foam. Yes, it tastes like heaven. And yes, I'm wearing the fuzzy socks in the photo, though you can't see them. You'll just have to use that elite BSAA imagination of yours.
I have to say, Lieutenant, for a guy who 'doesn't have time for hobbies,' you’re a surprisingly good writer. Or maybe you're just a natural flirt? Calling my coffee a high-value asset... are you trying to butter up the civilian, or are you actually just that desperate for a latte?
If it's the latter, stay safe and come back in one piece. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll let you have a sip of a real one when you're back on home soil. I might even let you meet the 'terrorists,' though Mango usually charges a fee in high-grade salmon treats for guest appearances.
Don't get too lonely out there in the foothills. If the grey gets too much, just look at the photo and remember what 'normal' looks like. (And maybe remember that there's a girl in fuzzy socks waiting to hear if you survived the 0300 watch).
Stay warm, Piers. That's an order... Or whatever your captain says.
Yours (and the cats'),
[Your Name]
You fold the paper with a satisfied snap. It's bold, maybe a little bit more than a "buddy" program usually calls for, but something about the way he wrote back made you want to push his buttons just a little. You want to see if a First Lieutenant can handle a bit of civilian heat.
You pack your things, the letter tucked safely into your bag. Now, you just need to get to the library to print that selfie before the post office closes.
The cold mist clinging to your skin is a small price to pay for the mission at hand. You leave the warmth of the coffee shop, ducking your head against the drizzle as you make a beeline for the local library. The heavy oak doors groan open, welcoming you into a world of hushed whispers and the comforting, vanilla-paper scent of old books.
You head straight for the computer lab in the back. Your heart gives a traitorous little flutter as you pull up the selfie on the screen. In the fluorescent overhead light of the library, the photo looks even better— a little soft, a little teasing, and definitely a contrast to whatever grit and grime Piers is staring at in Edonia.
The printer whirs to life, a mechanical groan echoing in the quiet room. You watch the paper slide out, the colours saturated and warm. You carefully trim the edges with the library's paper cutter, making sure it fits perfectly inside the envelope. You can't help but wonder where he'll keep it. In a pocket? Tucked into that rugged field notebook? The thought makes your cheeks feel warmer than the latte did.
"Next stop: the front lines. Sort of," you whisper to yourself.
The walk to the post office is a blur of puddles and grey pavement. You slide the envelope across the counter, paying for the international tracking with a sense of ceremony. As the clerk slaps the "Par Avion" sticker on the front, it feels like you're sending a little piece of your quiet world across the globe to anchor him.
By the time you reach your apartment building, the sun is a bruised purple smudge behind the clouds. You jiggle the key in the lock, and the moment the door swings open, you're met with the familiar thump-thump of paws hitting the hardwood.
"I'm home! I'm home, you tiny terrors!"
You drop your bag and scoop Mango up into your arms, ignoring her offended squawk as you bury your face in her soft, ginger fur. Toast is weaving figure-eights around your ankles, purring loud enough to rival a small engine.
"You guys won't believe it," you say, your voice bright with a giggle as you head toward the kitchen to get their dinner started. "The Lieutenant actually liked your 'topographical map' handwriting, Mango. He called you a terrorist. Honestly? Accurate."
It takes a short minute, but you eventually fill their bowls with food and set them down. You lean against the counter, watching them eat. The silence of the apartment doesn't feel quite as heavy as it did a week ago.
"And he's actually... Kind of charming?" You feel a silly grin spreading across your face. "In a very 'I-could-probably-identify-six-types-of-grenades-by-sound' kind of way. He's got a real bite to his humour. I think I'm going to like keeping him on his toes."
You reach down to scratch Toast behind the ears, thinking of the bold closing you wrote in that letter. You'd ordered a First Lieutenant to stay warm. You'd practically dared him to flirt back.
"Yeah," you murmur, looking out at the rain-slicked window. "Piers Nivans definitely doesn't sound too bad at all."