Chapter Text
It's not really how Havoc expects to spend his evening - it's Friday and he could be anywhere in this godforsaken town doing whatever the hell he wants. Or that’s what he keeps telling himself, because the truth is - there’s really not much he gets up to on a Friday night.
Hit the gym, maybe. Go for a run. Boring things that don’t have an expiration date on them. Things that he could be doing on any other day that isn’t a Friday.
So really, when Hawkeye asks him for a favour, he doesn’t really have a reason to say no. He could have lied - think up some kind of excuse to dip and run but the truth is, he’s free. Too free. He consoles himself with the knowledge that Hawkeye has helped him plenty of times before and this is just one small request against many.
He flicks the ash off his cigarette as he leans against his car.
The sun is setting, sky turning an awful shade of what could've been. He sighs, and takes a drag. This Friday is shot over, but he supposes there are still plenty of Fridays after this, anyway. (He reminds himself again that he hasn’t gotten any plans in the first place. He could lie to himself about that, but the truth is omnipotent.)
Havoc checks the time on his phone; it's already half past six and Hawkeye had promised that Mustang never goes beyond eight. If he's lucky, his boss would be done by seven. He stares up the stone steps that lead up to the fancy restaurant - it's one of those places that's probably packed with important people, where they pay ridiculous prices for portions the size of his thumbnail. He gives the place all of ten seconds worth of attention before he looks away.
He doesn’t spare it a second glance. It’s way out of his budget; even in twenty years, he’s never going to be able to afford dinner there.
Instead, he considers the hotdog stand just a mile away, and wonders if he’ll manage to eat one without getting sauce on his shirt. He curses the day when he decides to wear white to work; the hotdog would become more of a mission than a meal. It wouldn’t be that much of a dilemma if he had been in black. As it is though, he works with what he has.
He’s on his sixth mental back-and-forth over the hotdog stand when Mustang comes out through the restaurant’s double doors. Havoc doesn’t notice, only because he’s still thinking deeply about the forbidden dog in a bun; and he's so knee deep in his considerations that he misses, too, the look that passes over Mustang’s face.
If he had seen it though, it would have been a mix of apprehension, and horror, but also a fuck ton of indignant commitment. Then Mustang comes tip toe-dancing over to him.
“Hi, babe,” Mustang says exceedingly loud and pretentiously. He swings an arm round the taller man’s neck and throws himself at the other. Havoc jolts in surprise, knees buckling a little from the unexpected weight. “So nice of you to come and get me.”
“Wha-?”
“I’ve missed you soooo much, honey.”
Havoc tries to wriggle out of the grasp but Mustang just holds on tighter, eyes going comically wide as they exchange glances. Behind Mustang, there’s another man watching with a big, goofy grin.
The question of who the fuck is that? dies on his lips when Mustang steps on his feet. “Say you’re glad to see me, too,” Mustang hisses under his breath and Havoc, ever so confused, obliges.
He must have done a very convincing job of it because the other man calls out, “You’re still in public, Roy!”
Mustang rolls his eyes where only Havoc can see, before he turns and smiles sweetly. He throws a wave before he presses back against Havoc’s chest. Then the other man is waving wildly, and Havoc isn’t sure if it’s meant for him or someone else. But the guy stands there expectantly, still waving like a maniac. Havoc takes a chance and looks behind him - there’s no one there. He turns back, and raises his hand in greeting, albeit a very bewildered one.
The man does a skip, offers him a thumbs up, and then goes prancing down the alley like some kind of fairy apparition. He disappears round the bend, still skipping.
“Is he gone?” Mustang whispers after a while.
Havoc is confused. Very confused. His brain space is no longer taken up by the prospect of hotdogs. “Who?”
“Hughes,” Mustang hisses. Then thinking better of it, he unlatches his arms from where they’re wound tightly around Havoc and looks for himself. “He’s gone,” he says, satisfied.
“Huh?”
This time, Mustang turns and stares at him. There's a taut line drawn across his forehead as if everything doesn't make sense - which is unfair, because Havoc swears it should be him who's confused.
"Why are you here?" Mustang asks, as if he didn't just put his hand around Havoc's waist just thirty seconds ago. As if that's the bigger, more pressing matter at hand.
“I- huh?” It’s incredulous - how it almost sounds like everything that had just transpired was his fault. And if this is the game Mustang wants to play, well, Havoc can play it too. Mustang may be his boss, but that doesn’t deter him: Havoc decides to be twice the asshole he usually is. “I dunno, baby, I think I came here to see you.”
Mustang groans, and shoves the taller man away. “Where’s Riza?”
Ah.
Some pieces are falling into place. Havoc lifts his hand to show his car keys. “She had a last minute appointment with the vet, so she asked me to drive you back in her stead. Do you usually make her do chauffeur duties outside office hours?”
The second groan is more pitiful than the first, and Havoc eases up even if whatever the fuck just happened is sending him to another dimension. He opens the car door for Mustang and motions for him to get in. “Alright chief, I’m just messing with you,” he says coolly, inclining his head a little to the left, “c’mon, let’s get you home.”
They get in the car and the drive home is uneventful.
Mustang smoulders in his seat, with his mind in heated thought. It’s not uncomfortable; Havoc’s worked under Mustang for upwards of six years at this point. They’re not friends, per se, but they’re not foreign to each other. They exist on a friendly plane of existence; light banter and sarcasm, easy conversations but nothing too personal. Serious and focused when it calls for it.
The version of Mustang in the car seat is not something Havoc hasn’t seen before. Which is why he isn’t worried; doesn’t sense his impending doom.
When they reach Mustang’s driveway, Havoc waits patiently for Mustang to take his cue. Nothing happens - and nothing keeps happening. Havoc gives the smaller man a nudge. “Chief, you’re home.”
The night should have ended like that, but Mustang only reaches over and shuts off the engine. He folds his arms across his chest and stares blankly ahead. “About tonight-,” he starts.
“Don’t even have to mention it,” Havoc says easily, except Mustang stares at him harder.
“No, you’re wrong,” Mustang replies, adamant with an underlying coyness that Havoc can’t say he appreciates. He reaches out and pats Havoc’s hand on the steering wheel like some kind of consolation, as if they’ve both experienced different versions of the event prior. Because honestly, why the fuck would they not want to pretend it didn’t happen?
“You’re in this with me now,” Mustang says, all smarmy.
“Uhm-”
“Oh don’t worry,” Mustang says airily.
But Havoc is pretty worried right now. Nothing about that sounds like he shouldn’t be worried - in fact, being told not to worry is usually a sign for him to start worrying. He manages a strangled sound of confusion, unsure what else he could do or say that would be apt.
“You know,” Mustang continues, leaning a little over his arm rest, eyes squinting in the dark. “You’re not too bad, actually.”
It is particularly life-threatening - the gaze that Mustang has trained on Havoc. It makes an itch crawl on Havoc’s skin; it’s probably the combination of the intensity, just boring holes into his skull, and the fact that this is his boss who’s just casually checking him out from the passenger seat of his own damn car.
Having given up on feigning ignorance, Havoc turns to address his companion. “Har har,” he deadpans, losing momentum. The joke seems to have overstayed its welcome, comes dangerously close to toeing the line of awkwardness.
But Mustang leans back unfazed, smiling a little to himself. “The ladies must love you,” he comments.
Havoc blanches, face feeling very hot. The aircon might’ve just broken down. “They don’t, actually,” he says dryly. He is only a little sore about that. Just a little.
“Maybe you should try something else for a change.”
“I’m sorry I don’t…?”
“Come in for some tea?” Mustang asks instead, and Havoc knows it’s going to be a long night.
-
“My friend thinks we’re dating,” Mustang starts, and what a way to start a conversation. He is no longer frowning, no longer thinking up a storm in that skull of his. Something about his sudden enthusiasm seems bad for Havoc’s blood pressure..
There’s two cups of peppermint tea on the table, and frankly, Havoc is not a tea person - less so a peppermint person because that’s just toothpaste, what the fuck. But he politely takes a sip and does exceedingly well at not making a face.
He says nothing because what exactly would be the appropriate response to that? He waits patiently for further direction, but none is forthcoming. He tries to goad Mustang into talking more by inclining his head to the side, but that too, doesn’t work.
When he’s done waiting expectantly without an answer (which seems to be happening a lot tonight), Havoc prompts him further. “That’s, uhm, a pretty big misunderstanding you have there.”
“But it works in my favour,” Mustang answers brightly, nodding a little too eagerly. As if he’s congratulating himself on this new turn of events. “Hughes has been on my case about being a bachelor for so long, I can’t even describe the lengths of my pain.”
“Right, and…?”
“So I told him, while we were having dinner, that I’m already attached. Madly in love, even. That my baby was outside waiting for me to finish up so we could head home together. It was a joke.”
“I think Hawkeye would not have liked that,” Havoc concedes.
Mustang smirks brilliantly. “Well, it would have been over if Riza had been there. But she wasn’t. And like a gift from the heavens, there you were. It took me a while to realise it but this is actually good.”
Havoc blinks, small frown turning the corners of his lips. “And now you’ve lost me. How is this a good thing?”
“Hughes thinks I’ve really gone and found myself a boyfriend.”
“‘Boyfriend’,” Havoc repeats, slowly, parsing the words in his head, breaking them down into bite-sized knowledge for his poor brain to process. Any minute now, and the gears will click into place. Mustang, very kindly, gives Havoc the benefit of the doubt; knows the other man is not exactly as dumb as he likes to pretend to be - Havoc may not be book smart, but he’s definitely not dense.
He leans back into his chair when he sees Havoc still doing the mental gymnastics, looking the very definition of smug: unhurried, confident and sure - like he’s got this all figured out from just one car ride home. Sometimes, Havoc envies him.
“Okaaaay,” he replies slowly. He kind of gets it, and then some. It’s starting to look bad in his head and just to be sure- “But, what has this got to do with me?”
“Hughes thinks we’re dating,” Mustang says frankly (again). Havoc thinks Mustang might have said the same thing in another lifetime. (It had only been some five minutes ago.) “He thinks you’re my boyfriend.”
This time, Havoc makes a face - all the pieces finally connecting in what is possibly the worst possible way ever - and Mustang can’t help but throw his head back and laugh.
“I’ve never dated a man,” Havoc says, as if that’s his only issue right now. And he also says it as if that makes any difference. He knows Mustang - knows that when this hard-headed man has set his mind on something, there’s no changing the trajectory of his thoughts. He’s right, because Mustang smiles plainly at him, almost deceptively sweet.
“It’ll be fun,” Mustang wheedles. “When’s the last time you’ve been on dates?”
Havoc narrows his eyes in annoyance. Wishes he hadn’t flirted back right before they got in the car. Somehow, the distraught version of Mustang is a lot more likeable than the one sitting across him. “Please don’t mention that again.”
“Haven’t you always been clamouring for romance?”
“I am clamouring for companionship, actually,” Havoc sniffs. “You injure me.”
Mustang blinks charmingly up at him. “Then I’ll be your companion.”
The idea makes something in Havoc’s brain stutter to a halt. “That doesn’t sound very promising,” he says dryly.
But Mustang is unfazed; continues to bat his eyelashes with a kind of ferocity that’s unnerving. “I’m a delight to be with, actually. Anyway, it won’t be for a long haul,” Mustang promises. “It just needs to be long enough to convince Hughes.”
“What’s in it for me?” Already, a sense of defeatedness. Havoc is itching for a smoke because this definitely had not been on his to-do list for a Friday night.
“A pay raise,” Mustang offers.
Except Havoc is no fool. “You can’t do that,” he snorts.
Mustang nods. “Fair. I’ll put in a good word for you with Riza, how about it?”
“Wouldn’t want to get in between you guys,” Havoc answers lightly.
But Mustang shrugs. “Eh,” he says. “So is it a deal?”
Havoc flaps his hand. He’s not into Hawkeye that way, too staunch and firm- he admires her and loves her as a friend, but that’s as far as it goes. “No dice. Why don’t you just ask her? She seems like the best candidate for this. I’m sure she’d humour you if you asked.”
“She’s actually the worst candidate, so no, I refuse.”
“Worried you wouldn’t be able to hold back, huh?”
His boss rolls his eyes at that, and wags a finger at him. “Are we done with the questions?”
“I still don’t know what’s in it for me.”
“You get to spend all this quality time with me - that’s exciting isn’t it?”
No, not really. The appeal is lost on Havoc - his face probably says it because Mustang doubles down; isn’t one to give up.
He still has a trump card, and he's really not afraid of using it: he knows Havoc bends to the will of his pleading. Mustang leans forward, does his best at puppy eyes imitation and says, “Pleeaaase?”
And Havoc knows he will hate himself, and knows he will regret all that this is. And most of all, he knows he will do it anyway because he isn’t above saying no to begging. He consoles himself with the thought that he’s got a lot of free time anyway.
-
Havoc wakes in the morning with 50 messages from Mustang (now adorned with a heart emoji in his contacts - courtesy of Mustang’s immaculate sense of romance) and 3 missed calls. He chucks his phone aside, and ignores all of it.
He rubs at his face, feels the scratch of his stubble against his palms. He contemplates this new development in his social life; unsure if he’s doing the right thing, making the right decisions. (The answer is pretty clear: no, he is not.)
Just for good measure, he takes his temperature. He is not sick - but he feels like he’s going to be. Everything seems like a fever dream. He needs some kind of reassurance that he isn’t going crazy. So he makes another bad decision: he calls Breda for lunch.
“Wait,” Breda says, a look of utter disbelief and amusement on his face. He waves his glass at Havoc. “You, sir, just pulled me along for a whole damn story didn’t you?”
He groans, feeling plenty affronted. “I’m honoured you don’t think I’m stupid enough to do that, but no, I’m not pulling your leg.” He can already feel the colour bleeding down his neck, crimson and raw with embarrassment.
Breda lets out an ugly guffaw, and leans closer, absolutely taken with entertainment. “You’re joking.”
“Thank you, you’re being very helpful right now,” Havoc retorts tartly. He pouts and Breda takes pity on him, pats him one on the shoulder as he continues to snort in his seat. Then he wipes a tear and clutches his side where it’s starting to cramp. The people at the table next to them are shooting them angry stares; they’re being too loud but Breda just won’t shut up.
“Okay but humour me this,” Breda says after he’s done laughing for a record straight three minutes. “Why the fuck would you agree to something like that?”
Havoc stops playing with his fork. He puts the utensil down and stares at his distorted reflection on the back of his spoon. Honestly, he’s not very sure himself. “I mean, it’s Mustang. Would you have said no to him?”
Breda looks at him sagely. Answers without missing a beat. “I would, yeah.”
It is not the reassurance Havoc wants. “You’re married, it’s different,” he complains, this time slumping into his seat.
“Wanna try asking the others?” Breda asks, “I’m pretty sure they’d all say no.”
“Hawkeye might say yes,” Havoc protests. But Breda only rolls his eyes.
“You can only compare apples with apples,” he says pointedly.
Whatever the fuck that means. Havoc filters it out to his own convenience. “I’ve never really denied him of anything he’s asked from me,” Havoc says, frowning. “But he’s also never asked anything outrageous from me.”
“Except this time.”
Havoc scowls. What really is the truth here? He tries to think back on the situation, but the events are all muddled up in his head despite the hyperclarity of it all. “I guess,” Havoc starts slowly, “it already seemed too late to turn back. His friend already thought we were a thing.”
“You’re actually insane.”
“Am I?” Havoc means to sound innocent and confused, but it comes out a little strangulated. Either way, he knows they’re both not buying whatever facade he’s trying to play at. Havoc is acutely aware that he has actually just lost his marbles; there is literally no other way to interpret the situation.
The laugh Havoc gets is twice as loud, and this time, their neighbours tut audibly. Havoc feels embarrassed once again but for different reasons.
“And this friend? Hughes? Is he from central HQ?”
Havoc shrugs. “Dunno. There are many Hughes in this city, it could be any one of them. Is that even relevant?”
Breda shakes his head. “I just think the whole thing would get ugly if he did.”
Their food arrives but Havoc is having less of an appetite than he had before he arrived. He sits up, trying to rid himself of his funk. He’s always taken things head-on, this shouldn’t be any different. It’s just. Another side job that he’s been saddled with. If he looks at it that way, things start to feel a little less daunting. Or so he hopes.
“It’s not that big of a deal, I guess. Just gotta ride it out for a while,” he says, unsure if he’s trying to convince Breda or himself.
“Huh,” Breda says, smirking just that little bit. Like he’s seeing more into the situation than Havoc sees. But the conversation is more or less over at this point, and Breda knows when not to press for more. He raises his fork, meatball stabbed at the top. He waves it theatrically and declares,“Well, all the best to you and yours.”
The people next door keep staring.
-
Havoc is very diligently minding his own business as he pipettes out aliquots into his vials - you know, doing the thing he’s being paid to do - when he overhears Hawkeye in the background.
“Is something the matter?” she asks; there’s the sound of an instrument in equilibration and then the sound of a chair being pushed back.
Then there’s the unmistakable sound of smugness in a tenor voice that doesn’t usually exist in the labs.
“Oh, just felt like coming around,” Mustang tells her. And Havoc very promptly misses the vial he had been eyeing, dispensing his sample all over the benchtop instead. He scowls before reaching for another vial. Except the box is empty now. He curses under his breath and turns, just in time to collide into his own boss.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Havoc gasps, feeling incredibly harried. He is thankful he’s put the samples down, or Mustang would’ve been covered in solvent.
“You’re in a panic,” Mustang observes critically. Havoc hates that - would really appreciate it if he doesn’t get picked apart like a specimen under a glass slider.
“I am working, actually,” he says humourlessly. He attempts to move over his boss, get another box of vials so he can continue with his work. But Mustang very effectively blocks him off by side stepping in time.
“I just wanted to check on you, Havoc,” Mustang says slowly, his voice is pitched low so no one else can hear. He inclines his head over to the side a little, and the horrible, devious look is nowhere to be found.
Havoc puts his pipette down. “About?” he asks. He is only playing dumb though, there’s only one possible reason right now.
Mustang looks nervous. “Are you okay?”
Havoc blinks; he hadn’t expected that approach. All the jitteriness he’s been feeling quietens immediately. Suddenly, he doesn’t know why he’s been so troubled by the arrangement; doesn’t know why he felt so unsure about what he’s doing.
Because it’s not even that deep. It’s not even that much of an ask, given how void his schedule tends to be. He huffs, feeling a little mellow with how Mustang is looking at him like a child caught doing something wrong. “I’m fine, sir.”
But there’s a seriousness in the hard lines of Mustang’s face that tells him that the shorter man is not joking. Havoc feels a sudden fondness for him, and just like that, some of the tension leaves him too. His own expressions slacken just that little bit, and he sees the way Mustang’s shoulders sag a little in relief from the smallest of change.
Havoc doesn’t need someone to spell it out for him that Mustang is heavily worried; regretful even. At the back of his mind, he suddenly remembers that he left Mustang on read the day before and had completely forgotten to get back to him.
He offers Mustang an amused smile, and arches an eyebrow. “Feeling bad?” he jokes. “But I’m fine, really. Sorry I forgot to reply.” The last part he adds for good measure, and he knows it eases something because Mustang visibly sighs out.
“I know I forced it onto you - and I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” Mustang tells him.
Havoc shrugs. An easy exit, and yet, somehow, he refuses to take it. He must be stupid or something. Instead, he says, “It’s okay, I mean, if I really didn’t want to, I would’ve said so.” He offers the other man his signature carefree grin. “I’m not afraid of saying no to things I’m not inclined to.”
Mustang looks at him curiously. Havoc knows it’s not his problem, but frustration isn’t a good look on his boss. He’s not exactly protective of Mustang - but he’s worked under him long enough to appreciate him in ways most don’t. It’s a small act for someone who has done plenty for him. Mustang has given his all to this country, so it only makes sense that he doesn’t deserve to be saddled with the unnecessary.
Havoc’s a little lost in thought, so he doesn’t quite notice when Mustang gets onto his tip-toes. It happens quickly - the hand on his shoulder tugging him lower, and then two quick pats on the head and a very satisfied look on Mustang’s face. And just like that, the latter leaves the lab, lab coat billowing as he takes it off.
Havoc isn’t quite sure what happened, a little disconnected from this reality, and he startles when Breda pokes him in the side.
“You guys already look like a couple” he comments, and Havoc can only stare at him like a lunatic.
-
Wednesdays, Mustang has decided without consulting Havoc, are for reconnaissance.
It’s smack in the middle of the week, and the appeal is lost entirely on Havoc. To add to the list of work he already does, he now has to chauffeur his boss home midweek. An extension of that includes a begrudging dinner date.
“It’s important,” Mustang had insisted. “How else are we going to share intel, and lay out the ground work?” (“Why do you make it sound like we’re at war?” “It’s you and me against the enemy, Jean.”)
While it’s true, it’s not necessarily what Havoc wants. He does it though, only because he’s a good samaritan.
They leave the office building a little past six, the sun starting to set in the horizon. It’s getting closer to fall now, and the days are getting shorter. It’s also getting colder, when a gust of wind comes blowing from the west, carrying with it dead leaves.
Next to him, Mustang shivers visibly.
“Yo, chief, where’s your jacket?” Havoc asks because poking fun at his boss is up there on his list of favourite things to do. “Didn’t you know it’s starting to get cold out starting today?”
Mustang gives him the stink eye. “I’m fine,” he snips, but his teeth are chattering in an uncharacteristic way that leaves the impression of a hamster.
“You sure don’t look fine,” Havoc comments, ever the unromantic. If Mustang had been hinting at something, the hint doesn’t get through. He starts walking in the direction of his car - parked a little further down today because of the annual carpark washing. Behind him, his boss shuffles quickly in step.
It takes all of ten seconds for Mustang to give in. “You’re not going to offer me your jacket?”
Havoc stops and stares at him, a little googly-eyed. “I only have one?”
It earns Havoc a scowl, and a good punch to the arm. “And you wonder why the ladies don’t want you,” he sighs.
This time, it’s Havoc’s turn to pout. He’s ready to argue on that point when Mustang does the unthinkable: he starts fighting the jacket off of Havoc. It’s a little comical but Mustang is strong, and Havoc isn’t about to deck his boss one even if he’s being unreasonable as fuck right now.
He surrenders the jacket before it splits at the seams.
“Okay!” He yelps, pushing at Mustang’s face with a hand, his other arm entangled in the sleeve where Mustang is pulling. “I get it! You can have it, jesus!”
It’s offensively cute the way Mustang beams smugly, jacket snug around his shoulders. There’s a little saunter in his step as he walks ahead of Havoc towards the car. And Havoc can only sigh, not sure what in god’s grace he has signed up for - wrong place at the wrong time, probably.
But admittedly, in some ways, Havoc knows he’s still won. Because maybe nobody will tell him, but honestly, Mustang looks dumb as heck in a jacket that’s two sizes too big for him.
Havoc contents himself with that as he trudges behind his boss.
-
Their dinner date becomes a pathetic square of toast and a can of instant soup split between the two of them.
Havoc learns, for the first time ever, that Mustang is a terrible cook, and that he likes to add carrots to everything. Carrots aren’t even that delicious, but it seems to be the hill Mustang has chosen to die on.
Havoc supposes that not everyone can have impeccable taste for the finer things in life. Although, quite frankly, he’s not really one to talk - Breda has made many exasperated comments on his food choices. This, however, is not information Mustang needs to know.
The soup tastes burnt like the charred remains at the bottom of a pot. Havoc is not one to speculate, but one could hardly call this speculation when the answer can be nothing else but that. He does his best to not comment on it.
“I mean, don’t you want a girlfriend?” Havoc asks instead. He knows the response he’s about to get, and is awarded for it handsomely.
The eyeroll conveys all the irritation and annoyance that Mustang doesn’t say. “Don’t you start too.”
Havoc raises both hands in defeat. “Point taken, but I feel like I should be allowed to know. Y’know, since you’re asking this of me.”
“It’s not relevant,” Mustang insists but Havoc is not buying it.
“It sure is, chief. You wouldn’t be having this problem if not for the fact that you’re still single.”
Mustang shrugs, busily digging out a carrot square from the pit of his corn soup. “I don’t really have time to invest in an actual relationship.”
Havoc arches an eyebrow. The irony is not lost on him. “But you’ve got the time for this?” He gestures vaguely between them, and watches as Mustang flounders.
“It’s different,” his boss complains. “Girls, dating - all of that requires careful thought and consideration. That’s a lot of work. This won’t be stressful.”
And Havoc should probably feel offended, what with how Mustang insinuates that spending time together requires zero thought or considerations, but there’s something else that also stands out to him. It makes him wonder about the past girls Mustang has ever been with. “A relationship shouldn’t be stressful,” he points out.
“Our arrangement requires zero commitment,” Mustang tries again.
Only, he gets it wrong for a second time. That’s a bare-faced lie if Havoc has ever seen one. “Zero commitment means I shouldn’t have to give you my Wednesdays.”
Mustang gives him a serious stare, head nodding slowly but sagely. “I see,” Mustang says, eyebrows furrowed as something clicks inside his head. He continues to nod, as if he’s actually considering Havoc’s words. Then he says, with full gravity, “ And yet you’re here. Maybe it’s because you actually really like me.”
For a moment, Havoc thinks he might have just slipped into another dimension. He squints, actually has to stop and consider if he’s having an aneurysm. He reaches forward and flicks his boss on the forehead. “Try again,” he scolds.
Mustang moves to act like he’s thinking really hard, expression scrunched in mock concentration. “Maybe,” he says slowly - and Havoc just knows something stupid is lining up at the back of his mouth. “Maybe this all works, because you’re actually the one meant for me.”
Havoc certainly expected none of that. His cheeks feel hot in the way a blush would feel like - which he most certainly is not. And Mustang most certainly did not just flirt with him. But there’s a childish glee on Mustang’s face that just would not dispel, and the way he keeps blinking sweetly says more than Havoc is willing to admit
On instinct, his hands close around his own lighter, something to quiet the fidgeting mind. The half eaten soup sits sadly on the table, forgotten.
“You don’t even like guys,” Havoc says lamely.
“You don’t know that,” Mustang replies coolly. “It’s all experimental, anyway. I’m not opposed to trying. Are you?”
It’s not something Havoc has ever really considered. But he isn’t repulsed by the idea, or even turned off by it so - “I guess not,” he answers slowly. Lately it seems he still has much to learn about himself. It’s actually a little worrying how easily he is swayed by Mustang’s conviction.
Honestly, the longer he gets involved in this, the more troublesome it seems. It’s probably not even worth the effort. But Mustang continues to look up at him with the charm of an angel and Havoc can only concede defeat.
He needs a break.
“Mind if I head out to smoke for a bit?”
“Of course, I know how much you love your cancer sticks,” Mustang says. “Balcony’s that way.”
“Balcony?” Havoc stops midway where he’s just taking his coat off the rack. He turns to the other man, a little confused, only to find the puzzlement reflected back at him.
“Yes?” Mustang says, suddenly sounding unsure.“Where else were you going to smoke?”
Havoc feels his face flush for the second time, ears turning a slight shade of red. There’s no reason to be embarrassed but he is, for some reason or another, feeling entirely scrutinised and uncomfortable about his habits. “Uhm, the carpark? I wouldn’t want to trouble your neighbours.”
There is genuine surprise on Mustang’s face when he hears that. He inclines his head to the side, curious. “Do you do that at home too?”
“I, uh, yes?”
“Wait, really? Do you leave your home every single time?”
Havoc scowls, unsure what his boss is playing at. “Yes?”
“Interesting. That’s actually very considerate of you,” Mustang says. His eyes are bright, and his mouth makes a little ‘o’ with how in awe he actually feels. “I didn’t peg you as the type.”
Now, Havoc just feels insulted. “I’m starting to question the image you have of me,” he says flatly. “I seem incredibly unfavourable from all the things I’ve heard so far.”
Mustang’s reply is a soft laugh, eyes crinkling at the corner - amused. It does nothing for Havoc’s heart. The conversation is dropped as Mustang just motions for him to follow.
The balcony railings are dusty from neglect. Even the glass sliding door had jammed a little from lack of use, rust crusting in places where it has become weather-worn. Mustang seems unbothered, so Havoc says nothing of it.
“Here you go,” Mustang says.
They’re high up on the twentieth floor, and the balcony opens up to an expansive view of the city. The little windows light up the sea of buildings, like fallen stars into the murky darkness.
“Thanks,” Havoc says quietly, as he fishes for his case of cigarettes. He leans up against the railings, putting a stick between his lips, waiting expectantly for the sound of the closing door before he lights it up.
Except the sound never comes. He turns to look at the other man, quizzical.
“Oh don’t mind me,” Mustang says.
“You can head back inside, sir.”
“Aww, you’re being shy,” Mustang coos.
To be clear, Havoc is not. He rolls his eyes, and says nothing when Mustang comes up to join him by the railings. Out of habit, Havoc reaches out and switches them around, positioning Mustang to his left.
“Don’t stand on my right,” Havoc says distractedly as he lights his cigarette. It takes a while to catch, but it burns brightly once it does. He lets out a billow of smoke and watches as it gets carried off in the gusts. “You’ll catch the smoke on downwind.”
Mustang utters a soft 'oh', and keeps to himself the rest of the time, watching with a kind of awe and quiet admiration, the spark in his eyes seemingly dangerous. Havoc pointedly avoids looking at him.
They stay quietly on the balcony, stars above and below.
-
He is distracted when Hawkeye lets out a little shriek - a tight pitch that lasts no more than five seconds. Easily missed if it hadn’t been so quiet.
The squeak is followed by the sound of stationery cluttering to the floor; the loud drag of a chair. And Havoc is a little inclined to ignore it because Hawkeye is a schooled professional and surely she’d want them all to have pretended nothing had happened
Only Breda leaps up next to him and kicks him in the process.
“Shit!” Breda yelps, and Havoc gives him the stink eye, rubbing at his shin dramatically. It goes unnoticed, Breda’s eyes are focused elsewhere.
The office becomes a cacophony of sounds as the rest begin to scramble apart.
“Oh,” Falman gasps. Faint, like he could pass out any minute - he might, with how white he’s gone.
Then Havoc sees it: something small, oblong, and shiny. Brown, with feelers twitching.
“Ha,” he says, because surely they’re not actually scared of a roach of all things. But his colleagues all huddle around him and it’s so ridiculous - but also what the hell. He’s about to laugh but then it flies, and suddenly it’s not so funny anymore.
There are screams from men of all different ages, a choir of terror in the four walls of the room. Hawkeye is the first to disappear from view, hiding in a little nook that only she can squeeze into.
It takes ten minutes before Havoc successfully catches it, trapped against the glass walls of a cup and the flat surface of a table. He’s sweating - it’s a workout. Some of the chairs have flipped over in the process and there are papers all over the floor. It looks like a riot - and in some ways, the analogy is not wrong.
“Thank you,” Hawkeye says as she eases herself out of her little nook. She dusts down her pants, looking sheepish. She’s about to say something more when the roach attempts to fly; there are soft tinkling sounds as it hits the glass. She flinches and scowls, giving it a look of distaste.
“I owe you a favour,” she tells Havoc, lightly touching his arm.
“I think you all owe me a favour each,” Havoc jokes. He smiles reassuringly at Hawkeye though, makes sure she knows he’s only kidding. The small smile he gets in return reassures him that some of that message got across.
When the rest of his colleagues decide to finally come out of hiding, they all stare down at the roach; watch as it frets in little circles.
“Gross,” Feury comments.
“Damn right,” Mustang scowls, having walked into the whole affair. It’s one thing to find his subordinates all not working; gathering around his own desk. It’s another thing entirely when - he points to the cup, “Exactly who’s cup do you think that is, Havoc?”
-
“Remember, we met at a family function,” Mustang recites in the car to Hughes’ place. “And you fell madly in love with me.”
“Why does it have to be me that falls in love?” Havoc complains, changing gears as they turn into Hughe’s parking lot.
“It’s just more believable that way,” Mustang replies. It is exactly as insulting as Havoc thinks it is.
“What if he hates me?” Havoc moans, exaggeratingly. They’re both idling in the car, the engine rumbling as it waits for instructions. He’s being annoying and he knows it, purposeful in his antics to drive his boss insane, and purposeful in dragging this out longer than he has to. (He is fucking nervous about meeting people who have little bearings on his life.)
Except Mustang is always ten steps ahead of him. He reaches out and pats Havoc on the cheek, making the taller man scowl. “That’d be great then, wouldn’t it? It means they won’t invite you again.”
It feels like it was just yesterday when Havoc had unknowingly walked into this whole mess. He knows though, that in reality, it’s been about two weeks now and somehow, despite all they’ve done, he still feels ill prepared for this. The feeling is akin to taking an exam he hasn’t studied for - which doesn’t say much since he’s never really studied properly. But still.
“I still don’t know why you couldn’t ask Hawkeye.”
“Ah, semantics,” Mustang says dismissively.
And maybe it’s because Havoc feels indignant by the lack of answers, or it could be because he’s always been a little piece of shit, that he decides right there and then that he’s going to be so likeable, to the point where Hughes would have no qualms asking him over again.
“You know what? I changed my mind. I think he’ll find me so charming that he won’t believe for a minute that you weren’t the first one to fall for me,” Havoc says as Mustang rings the doorbell.
“You’re already sweeping me off my feet right this minute, Jean,” Mustang says.
It makes Havoc flustered. He spits out defiantly, “Sir, he’s going to like me so much, you’re going to feel awful for bringing me.”
“Hmm,” Mustang replies, amused. “I sure hope so, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
The door opens and Hughes beams brilliantly. “Roy!” he exclaims, smiling toothily. The little girl who clings to his leg has a mirroring grin, the resemblance is only lost through the gaps in her teeth.
Hughes waves at Havoc, and his resolve immediately quakes. He gets offered a hand in greeting and Havoc knows he’s not prepared for this at all. No sir, not at all.
Out of habit, Havoc bows slightly before taking Hughe’s outstretched hand. It earns him a whistle and a “You’re a formal one!” but honestly, Hughes started it first with the handshake. He almost says as much but holds his tongue quickly enough.
Playing the role of Mustang’s boyfriend turns out to be a lot harder than he thought it would be. He’s not used to being so fawned upon, showered with delicate consideration like he’s something precious. Hughes is incredibly benevolent and his warmth seems bigger than life.
Mustang brings a new meaning to the idea of boyfriends, and Havoc finds he isn’t surprised why the ladies all prefer his own boss to him. He’s so frustratingly perfect, Havoc is about to lose his mind. Even if they’re playing, Mustang is very openly considerate towards him - it’s a very convincing act and even Havoc finds himself questioning the circumstances.
He ends up spending more time with Elicia than with anybody else - the conversations of Mustang and Hughes rarely, if ever, concerns him and Gracia had very kindly barred him from the kitchen. It’s just easier with Elicia, really. She doesn’t have expectations from him, which means he can’t possibly do anything wrong. Or so he hopes.
She shows him her little collection of drawings, most of which are pictures of her parents. And before he knows it, he has a crayon in his hand, hunched over awkwardly as they both draw on the floor.
“I didn’t know you could draw,” Mustang says, plopping himself next to Havoc. He sits close enough that their thighs are brushing, then he leans in over to Havoc. His breath comes out as soft puffs of air against Havoc’s neck, making a shiver ghost across his skin. It’s not an unwanted sensation, although frankly, it’s very unbecoming to have this level of intimacy with Mustang, of all people.
Havoc pushes the thought out of his head, focusing on the task at hand. He scoffs at Mustang's shabby compliment. “I think people normally say that to people who can actually draw,” he says pointedly. He looks at the yellow glob of crayon wax that was supposed to be a lion - he should’ve stopped there but he reaches out and takes the black crayon; stencils in some eyes. It’s all he can do to not snort at the monstrosity.
Elicia claps, delighted, and Mustang beams at her; gives her a small pat on the head. “Very charming isn’t it, Elicia?”
She nods enthusiastically and Havoc feels sorry for them both. There’s a glint in Mustang’s eyes that warrants the eye roll Havoc works hard to hold back.
“Want to go show Mama and Papa?” Mustang asks her. He picks up the paper and hands it to Elicia, and the sweet little child jumps up, running off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Hey, we were having fun,” Havoc complains lightly. He sits up, and his lower back creaks in protest. All that gym work has yet to prove itself for a situation like this.
“When’s it my turn to have fun with you?” Mustang replies, eyes bright.
He knows Mustang is just being a tease. And he knows he’s supposed to play his part. It’s just strange that play-pretend with Mustang feels so easy; the banter comes easily even though they’re not exactly friends, so to speak.
And yet, something about the way that Mustang asks that makes his emotions stir a little. “I dunno if it’s possible to ever have fun with you,” he jests.
Havoc is always acutely aware of the power imbalance between them, always has to keep in check the kind of things he says to not upset his superior - only Mustang is mostly unfazed and unbothered. (The smirk he receives tells him that Mustang is just as amused as he is.) It becomes easy, and Havoc has to wonder if Mustang is always this easy with everyone he meets.
“Want to draw me next?” Mustang asks innocently. He passes the black crayon back to Havoc. “Charm me with your visions, Jean.”
Havoc just about chokes on his saliva, blushing viciously. It’s not fair that Mustang gets to flirt so graciously with him in plain sight of everyone - the way his name rolls off of the other man’s tongue makes him uncomfortable although he can’t say why.
He’s about to draw the most insulting portrait of Mustang when Gracia saves them both from a prospective fist fight with a call for dinner.
-
Dinner is horrific because Gracia brings out all the kitchenware as if she thought she were dining with royalty. The number of different spoons and forks lining both sides of his plate are utterly intimidating and there are more knives than he can count. Nothing spells out his lack of etiquette than his utter confusion over the shapes and sizes of all the different tableware.
Mustang looks right at home, and he looks innocently at Havoc - a little devious grin that tells him that Mustang had known this was coming.
When Hughes and Gracia are distracted, he mouths something that resembles ‘I hate you’ in the direction of Mustang. The smug look he gets back in return is evil, and the hand on his thigh under the table is just salt on wound.
The only other person who struggles with the spoon arrangement is Elicia - and that hardly counts because her parents hold up the array and ask her to point randomly. They’re cooing and clapping in the corner, all eyes and attention on the little girl - it’s healing in all the ways Mustang isn’t.
“I could do that for you too, if you want,” Mustang whispers, and Havoc wants to kick him.
-
He helps with washing up because he can’t just sit still and stare into space. Visiting someone’s place is always so uncomfortable when you don’t know the people involved. He helps with the washing and drying, putting them away neatly on the shelf. It would have contented him to do it himself, because that way he gets a reprieve from prying eyes, but Hughes will have none of that.
“Ho!” Hughes exclaims while Havoc tries to wipe off a stubborn stain. He goes over and throws an arm around Havoc’s neck like they’re already good friends. “You don’t have to be doing this, Jean!”
He stifles the pitiable groan that almost worms its way past his throat.
He laughs, awkwardly instead. Doesn’t know what to say; thinks he’s been doing a damn good job of staying off their radar for thirty minutes. “I just figured I could help out a little while I’m here,” he says mildly. He makes weird gestures with his hands and successfully gets a dollop of soap suds on the kitchen floor.
Hughes laughs brightly. “Let me help you then,” he bellows, hearty and happy. This man, Havoc thinks, lives with his heart on his sleeve - so open and unassuming. He wonders how it must be like to live that way.
The soap suds get towelled away, and then it becomes the two of them, washing and drying and packing away.
“You know,” Hughes starts, after the silence drags on for far too long. “I was really surprised when Roy told me he’s found someone.” He tosses the dish rag onto the counter as the last of the plates gets put away.
“We, uh, met at a family function,” Havoc regurgitates, mind churning so hard to come up with the specifics that Mustang had very painstakingly moulded. He speaks uncharacteristically fast, so much so that Hughes looks at him confused.
“Woah there,” Hughes says, amused. He pats Havoc gently on the back. “I just wanted to ask you to keep a lookout for him. Roy always sets his sight on the future - he often forgets to live in the present. But he’s not a bad person.”
He looks out onto the living room space where Mustang is trying to teach Elicia chess, clearly failing to get through to her. Gracia smiles as she looks on. Havoc follows his gaze, mind going a little tender at the sight.
“Of course,” he says in return. “Please leave it to me.”
The little curl that appears on Hughes’ lips tells him that he passed the assessment. Havoc gets a good squeeze to his shoulders, fingers digging in harder than they need to. Then he gets two earth-shattering thumps to his back, making his head wriggle with the impact.
He barely sets himself upright when Hughes calls out loudly, “Roy!”
Mustang sits up, and turns to look at them, alarmed. He waves slowly and uncertainly, somewhat embarrassed when he sees the two men watching him.
Hughes jabs a thumb in Havoc’s direction before he continues yelling. “Bring him ‘round for Elicia’s birthday, you hear?!”
Mustang responds with a thumbs up, eyes bright. Havoc gets another rough thump right between his shoulder blades.