hear me out: Havoc takes Riza on a date.
@rizahawkayeâ made me do this, she bent my arm until i cried to write this. Biggest thanks to @lonepiper5758â for looking over this !
HavocaiWords: Rated T for very nuanced themes.Â
A new one joins the ranks.
At Mustangâs behest, sharpshooter Jean Havoc joins the team and changes the dynamic of their barely amicable, two person unit like the crack of the rifle. A loud one that brings out the boisterous side to Mustang theyâve both long forgotten. He sings terribly off-tune, uncaring that it is, and walks around heavy-footed with a cloud of smoke wafting in his general vicinity. He stands tall and proud, and speaks with a lilt from the countryside that, with a crinkle of her nose, reminds her of her old home. His hair looks like he grabbed a handful of hay and slapped it on right above his hairline. Secretly, this tickles Riza the most.
With his guns and his drawl, the man is a walking stereotype.
And yet, Riza indulges in his eyes. For a flutter of a second, theyâd catch her off guard; somewhat mesmerized with how they reflected like the surface of still waters. Unassuming and clear. Vibrant, but they werenât burning with life or ambitions or broken promises. They didnât ignite her with ire or rekindle a yearning. The calming effect on her was strange, invigorating. Refreshing that sheâd be able to look into a manâs eyes and not walk away with a whirlwind of emotions.
He isnât the brightest, Jean admits openly to her on the shooting grounds. But that he makes up for it in intuition. Just knowing when things are right and when they arenât right, he says.
Is that right, she intones, focused with restocking a clip. Riza, wholly unaware to his body language, doesnât even look at the smug look on his face, the quirk on his lip, when he declares that she wants to go onto a date with him as his example.
Her finger slips. The bullet clatters on the wooden table and it echoes like the nerves rattling in her head, suddenly frayed. Riza slaps it down with her hand.
That sheâd like a nice, simple dinner and good conversation. Nothing extravagant. With a nice coffee and dessert to top it off. Maybe a kiss on the cheek, because she looks old fashioned. Also the little twang in her voice isnât as gone as she likes to think.
Riza frowns, because that does sound nice and because that twang is gone. No. Wait. Sheâs never had that twang.
He leans into the table separating them just as she props the rifle up. Those blue eyes shine just looking at her, suddenly serious. It dawns on Riza what gave her away. Earnestly, he says, he canât promise good conversation, but he can sure make a fool of himself trying.
A chill tickles the back of her neck. She wants to smile from such a candid comment, so honest and simple. Uncomplicated. But thatâd remove her from what she was trying to become, as if smiling would render her vulnerable. Thatâs absurd she thought. Whatâs even more absurd is that she agreed; his intuition had been correct. She made herself obvious and he caught her, so the answer is yes.
He celebrates like a little boy, pounding a fist on the table and saying a country phrase that is too embarrassing to commit to memory. Rizaâs lips curl inward, trapping them in between her teeth. She stops herself from laughing at such a boyish display as if the joy of a simple response was contagious.
Then he tells her there are three conditions. Her eyebrow raises with suspicion.
One index finger. No talk of work. A middle finger. No mentions of superiors. A ring finger. And they both have to look darling.
She can agree to that, Riza says.
He warned her about making a fool of himself and make a fool of himself he did. An average date for an average man. In her mind, she thought about how mean-spirited it was to think about how nothing about him is represented to an exceptional degree. Had she stayed in her fatherâs manor, sheâd marry a man just like him, give him children. Die old.
Mustangâs interest in him was well-spotted: Heâs good company and a greater asset on the field. Probably follows directions well, but doesnât give them.
The streets of East City welcome the rain during their walk back and then it pours. She eyes the makeshift rivers just outside the curb of the sidewalk. The deluge takes every stray leaf with it. Every thread of her Sunday best is drenched. Tendrils of hair stick to her face but sheâs unbothered and especially relieved when he doesnât coddle her about it. Then, something about as strange as indulging in someone eyes happens as the fabric sticks to him like second skin and his hair flattens to look like something less ludicrous.
They approach the front of her building and he tells her theyâll get the sweets next time, when it isnât raining farm animal out here. He shrugs timidly. Maybe a kiss on the cheek then too, he says, scratching his cheek, eye darted away in embarrassment.
Riza studies him and how the water ran in rivulets off him. The rain hits her head, almost rhythmically to a tune so foreign she blinks it out of her eyes. She confesses she isnât old fashioned enough as heâd like to think to particularly care for kisses on the cheek.
She has coffee and maybe some stale pastries in her cupboards, if heâd like to join her upstairs. Maybe a cozier reprieve from the rain to delay this denouement.
He pauses and narrows his eyes until the lamplight behind him illuminates. Those are some big words, Jean says. But he can agree to that.
