HavocWinry Themes
Title: SWM seek CSFG w/ GP
Author: Camudekyu
Rating: G
Pairing: Havoc/Winry
Length: 3 pages for now
Warnings: No spoilers. Cuteness, though.
Summary: Jean Havoc, Winry Rockbell, and a roadtrip home.
A/N: Got inspired by the 30_kisses themes. I haven't heard back from the mods about claiming this couple, but I thought it would be okay to use their themes for my own purposes. (I sure hope I'm not stepping on anyone's toes by doing this outside of the comm.) So here are the first 6 themes:
I. Look Over Here
“Well, I'll be,” Breda muttered as he leafed through the most recent issue of the Central Headquarters Classifieds. With a red pen, he circled a particular ad of interest, and he kept his index finger sandwiched between two pages as he browsed and waited for Havoc to return from a smoke break.
When the First Lieutenant returned, he made as loud a display as he could of shuffling in and slumping into his chair. Seeing as how the updates from Havoc were usually along the same lines-again? But I thought for sure this time-Breda didn't bother asking what was eating him. Instead, Second Lieutenant Breda leaned across the desk and tossed the folded paper down in front of Havoc.
“Looks like someone might be taking you up on your offer,” Breda said and pointed toward the ad he had circled.
“Which offer?” Havoc muttered.
A week ago, Breda and Mustang had conspired to post an ad on Havoc's behalf: SWM seeks CSFG w/ GP. Havoc had yet to hear back on that one.
“A driving buddy,” Breda said. He tapped his finger against the paper once more, and Havoc let out a long suffering sigh and pushed himself up. “Would you quit moping? I'm trying to give some good news for crying out loud. This might be just what you need to kiss that losing streak goodbye.”
Havoc lifted the paper to his eyes. He saw it then, a request posted by WRockbell earlier that week. Is anyone driving to Resembool for New Years and looking to split expenses?
“WRockbell?” Havoc mused.
II. News; Letter
“A tall blonde man in uniform?” Winry asked, drumming her fingers on her chin in the waiting room of her shop.
“Yeah,” the receptionist said. “I think you'd remember him if you saw him.”
Winry stole a glance at the young secretary. She was still a touch pink high in her cheeks.
“Anyway, he left you a message. It's right here,” the girl said, pulling the top sheet off a steno pad and handing it to Winry.
Penned in a distinctly masculine, messy scrawl, the note was somewhat difficult to read. Winry squinted a little, turned the letter a few degrees this way and that, but with some effort, she deciphered that First Lieutenant Jean Havoc-oh, yes, she remembered him-was driving out to Resembool for New Years and was, in fact, looking for someone to go halvsies on gas.
Winry perked immediately.
“Good news?” the receptionist asked.
“Great news! You can kiss my lonely butt goodbye, Sharon, because I'm going home for the holidays!” Winry cheered.
III. Jolt!
This sucked. Just plain sucked. Winry pushed her hands deeper into her pockets and brought her shoulders closer to her ears. From over the fleecy horizon of her scarf, she glared at Havoc, who stood to her left in the sifting snow, scratching the back of his head and shifting between frustration and embarrassment.
“I just serviced the thing a month ago!” Havoc shouted over the whirring roar of a colleague's car. Winry and Havoc stood between the black sedan and Havoc's concrete-gray pick-up truck, parked front bumper to front bumper, hoods up like cartoon crocodiles facing off. Two heavy cables linked the vehicles.
“We're so behind schedule, Lieutenant,” Winry grumbled. Or she would have grumbled if she hadn't needed to yell through the coils of her scarf and over the revving engine. “We should just leave tomorrow morning.”
He turned a dismayed look on her and put up his hands in his brown, fingerless gloves. “Just another minute, and we'll hit the road,” he said. When Winry continued to stare at him, he frowned a little and wiped away the dew from the snowflakes that kissed his brow. “And I also answer to Jean. Not just Lieutenant.”
He could see only Winry's unamused blue eyes framed in pale skin. The rest of her face was obscured, but he knew the look already. Havoc turned back toward his truck, his traitorous, old truck that he had thought was on his team. He sighed a thick, damp cloud that curled around him and the sour girl to his right. He snuck a glance at her. Stuck out already, he thought glumly.
IV. Our Distance and That Person
“If we book it,” Winry said around the shaft of a small flashlight as she unfolded the map across the dash board, “And I mean book it, I think it's going to take us a week or so.”
“A week?” Jean cried. He wanted to snatched the map out of her hands and figure out where the hell she was getting these numbers, but the road ahead was dark and snowy and quite thoroughly demanded all his attention. “I've done this drive in four days!”
She plucked the flashlight out from between her incisors and rested it against her lips. “I'm looking at the map, Lieu-Jean, and unless you did some serious off-roading, this can't take less than a week,” Winry answered tartly. “That is, of course, if you want to sleep at all.”
The cabin grew quiet for a moment. “You're gonna be that person aren't you?” Jean intoned.
“What person?” Winry snapped, her words treading on the tail of his.
“The Road Trip Downer.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that's totally you,” he teased. “I should have known.”
Winry scoffed, made a great display of crossing her arms and slumping into her coat, and glared straight ahead. When Jean began to chuckle, she slumped and glared even harder.
V. “Ano sa” (“Hey, You Know...”)
The clock on the wall behind the reception desk said four in the morning, and Winry was so tired that she had woken back up. The light in the foyer seemed milky and thick, all unnatural and out of place, and only distantly could she imagine the benediction of getting horizontal in a hotel bed.
Jean set his duffel bag on the floor and dinged the bell on the desk. He put a hand on the back of his neck and rolled his head to the right and the left. “What time do you want to hit the road tomorrow?” he asked.
“You mean later today?” Winry muttered, her voice flat and thin.
Jean snorted. “Yeah. Later today.”
Winry sighed, blinked her eyes hard to keep them focused, and leaned an elbow against the desk. “Eight?” she suggested. Jean turned his weary, drawn face on her, and Winry knew that that had been the wrong answer.
An older man came up to the front desk from a back room. He looked either like the hour did not bother him so much or like he had the misfortune of always having that four-in-the-morning sort of face. “What can I get you kids?”
“A room for me and a room for the lady,” Jean said, jerking his head toward Winry.
“Just one?” the man asked. There was no glint in his eye or insinuation in his tone. Perhaps it was the hour.
“No, we'll need-” Jean began.
“Hey, you know,” Winry interrupted, putting up her hand. “Why don't we just get the one room? We'll get one with a couch. It'll save us a lot of money.”
Jean blinked at her. “Well, uh,” he began. When he felt the old man watching them both, he snagged Winry's shoulder and turned them together so that their backs were to the desk. “You sure?” he asked quietly.
Winry waved a dismissive hand at him. “You stay on your side. I'll stay on mine,” she said. “Besides, it's only for four hours.”
His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Right. Four hours.”
They turned back to the reception desk and accepted their single key.
~
When Winry emerged from the washroom in her sleeping shift, Jean was riffling through the upper shelves of the linen closet by the door. “You looking for a souvenir?” she joked. She watched him a moment as he pushed hangers and an iron and towels of all sizes out of his way. He had changed into his pajama pants while they had the bathroom door between them, and something about it just looked odd to Winry.
She'd never imagined a soldier, a man she'd only ever seen in uniform, doing such a civilian thing as wear blue, striped PJ pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He looked like just another person.
Jean turned toward her, a fleecy blanket draped over his arm. “Thought maybe I could steal us some bathrobes,” he replied, cracking a threadbare grin.
Winry watched him snatch up a pillow from the bed and toss it and the blanket onto the couch. Jean sank to the cushions and stretched his, indeed, considerable legs out in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Winry asked. “I'll take the couch.”
He slumped back, taking up more space than Winry thought possible. “'Scalled chivalry where I come from.”
VI. The Space Between Dream and Reality
The following morning, Winry would not be certain if she had imagined it or not. It was blurry and soft around the edges like it was a dream, but it stuck in her mind like a memory. Either way, Jean did not act in any way that could let her know one way or the other. And Winry was not bold enough to ask.
At, perhaps, six in the morning, night still decidedly settled around the hotel, Winry gradually became aware of her eyes opening, gazing over the rolling horizon on her pillow. The air kissed her face lovelessly, bitterly cold. Her breath condensed before her eyes, and through the cloud, Winry could see Jean Havoc sitting in a wooden chair under the the window.
Winry watched, the oddness of the tableau lost on her sleepy senses.
A breeze leaked through the opened window, and Jean sat motionless except his birchwood-colored hair shifting over his eyes. He took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke out the window.
That's considerate, Winry's mind supplied.
He looked awfully solitary there under the window, the pale, halfhearted light from a waning moon making him look rather partitioned off. Winry watched him sigh resignedly, rub at his eyes hard, and finish his cigarette. And she was asleep before she could see any more.
OMAKE:
Jean stood at the counter, beaming-it was the sort of smile that had no business being out after less than four hours of sleep-at the young barista, who blushed and fluttered and tittered. Winry could hear him saying low, charming things to her. And the girl chirruped like a chickadee.
It was working, though, because the girl did not seem to notice Winry stuffing danishes and croissants and bagels from the continental breakfast-Dine-In Only, the sign said-into her pockets and bag. And when Jean came up to her and handed her a paper cup of coffee, Winry whispered, “Jackpot,” conspiratorially.
Author: Camudekyu
Rating: G
Pairing: Havoc/Winry
Length: 3 pages for now
Warnings: No spoilers. Cuteness, though.
Summary: Jean Havoc, Winry Rockbell, and a roadtrip home.
A/N: Got inspired by the 30_kisses themes. I haven't heard back from the mods about claiming this couple, but I thought it would be okay to use their themes for my own purposes. (I sure hope I'm not stepping on anyone's toes by doing this outside of the comm.) So here are the first 6 themes:
I. Look Over Here
“Well, I'll be,” Breda muttered as he leafed through the most recent issue of the Central Headquarters Classifieds. With a red pen, he circled a particular ad of interest, and he kept his index finger sandwiched between two pages as he browsed and waited for Havoc to return from a smoke break.
When the First Lieutenant returned, he made as loud a display as he could of shuffling in and slumping into his chair. Seeing as how the updates from Havoc were usually along the same lines-again? But I thought for sure this time-Breda didn't bother asking what was eating him. Instead, Second Lieutenant Breda leaned across the desk and tossed the folded paper down in front of Havoc.
“Looks like someone might be taking you up on your offer,” Breda said and pointed toward the ad he had circled.
“Which offer?” Havoc muttered.
A week ago, Breda and Mustang had conspired to post an ad on Havoc's behalf: SWM seeks CSFG w/ GP. Havoc had yet to hear back on that one.
“A driving buddy,” Breda said. He tapped his finger against the paper once more, and Havoc let out a long suffering sigh and pushed himself up. “Would you quit moping? I'm trying to give some good news for crying out loud. This might be just what you need to kiss that losing streak goodbye.”
Havoc lifted the paper to his eyes. He saw it then, a request posted by WRockbell earlier that week. Is anyone driving to Resembool for New Years and looking to split expenses?
“WRockbell?” Havoc mused.
II. News; Letter
“A tall blonde man in uniform?” Winry asked, drumming her fingers on her chin in the waiting room of her shop.
“Yeah,” the receptionist said. “I think you'd remember him if you saw him.”
Winry stole a glance at the young secretary. She was still a touch pink high in her cheeks.
“Anyway, he left you a message. It's right here,” the girl said, pulling the top sheet off a steno pad and handing it to Winry.
Penned in a distinctly masculine, messy scrawl, the note was somewhat difficult to read. Winry squinted a little, turned the letter a few degrees this way and that, but with some effort, she deciphered that First Lieutenant Jean Havoc-oh, yes, she remembered him-was driving out to Resembool for New Years and was, in fact, looking for someone to go halvsies on gas.
Winry perked immediately.
“Good news?” the receptionist asked.
“Great news! You can kiss my lonely butt goodbye, Sharon, because I'm going home for the holidays!” Winry cheered.
III. Jolt!
This sucked. Just plain sucked. Winry pushed her hands deeper into her pockets and brought her shoulders closer to her ears. From over the fleecy horizon of her scarf, she glared at Havoc, who stood to her left in the sifting snow, scratching the back of his head and shifting between frustration and embarrassment.
“I just serviced the thing a month ago!” Havoc shouted over the whirring roar of a colleague's car. Winry and Havoc stood between the black sedan and Havoc's concrete-gray pick-up truck, parked front bumper to front bumper, hoods up like cartoon crocodiles facing off. Two heavy cables linked the vehicles.
“We're so behind schedule, Lieutenant,” Winry grumbled. Or she would have grumbled if she hadn't needed to yell through the coils of her scarf and over the revving engine. “We should just leave tomorrow morning.”
He turned a dismayed look on her and put up his hands in his brown, fingerless gloves. “Just another minute, and we'll hit the road,” he said. When Winry continued to stare at him, he frowned a little and wiped away the dew from the snowflakes that kissed his brow. “And I also answer to Jean. Not just Lieutenant.”
He could see only Winry's unamused blue eyes framed in pale skin. The rest of her face was obscured, but he knew the look already. Havoc turned back toward his truck, his traitorous, old truck that he had thought was on his team. He sighed a thick, damp cloud that curled around him and the sour girl to his right. He snuck a glance at her. Stuck out already, he thought glumly.
IV. Our Distance and That Person
“If we book it,” Winry said around the shaft of a small flashlight as she unfolded the map across the dash board, “And I mean book it, I think it's going to take us a week or so.”
“A week?” Jean cried. He wanted to snatched the map out of her hands and figure out where the hell she was getting these numbers, but the road ahead was dark and snowy and quite thoroughly demanded all his attention. “I've done this drive in four days!”
She plucked the flashlight out from between her incisors and rested it against her lips. “I'm looking at the map, Lieu-Jean, and unless you did some serious off-roading, this can't take less than a week,” Winry answered tartly. “That is, of course, if you want to sleep at all.”
The cabin grew quiet for a moment. “You're gonna be that person aren't you?” Jean intoned.
“What person?” Winry snapped, her words treading on the tail of his.
“The Road Trip Downer.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that's totally you,” he teased. “I should have known.”
Winry scoffed, made a great display of crossing her arms and slumping into her coat, and glared straight ahead. When Jean began to chuckle, she slumped and glared even harder.
V. “Ano sa” (“Hey, You Know...”)
The clock on the wall behind the reception desk said four in the morning, and Winry was so tired that she had woken back up. The light in the foyer seemed milky and thick, all unnatural and out of place, and only distantly could she imagine the benediction of getting horizontal in a hotel bed.
Jean set his duffel bag on the floor and dinged the bell on the desk. He put a hand on the back of his neck and rolled his head to the right and the left. “What time do you want to hit the road tomorrow?” he asked.
“You mean later today?” Winry muttered, her voice flat and thin.
Jean snorted. “Yeah. Later today.”
Winry sighed, blinked her eyes hard to keep them focused, and leaned an elbow against the desk. “Eight?” she suggested. Jean turned his weary, drawn face on her, and Winry knew that that had been the wrong answer.
An older man came up to the front desk from a back room. He looked either like the hour did not bother him so much or like he had the misfortune of always having that four-in-the-morning sort of face. “What can I get you kids?”
“A room for me and a room for the lady,” Jean said, jerking his head toward Winry.
“Just one?” the man asked. There was no glint in his eye or insinuation in his tone. Perhaps it was the hour.
“No, we'll need-” Jean began.
“Hey, you know,” Winry interrupted, putting up her hand. “Why don't we just get the one room? We'll get one with a couch. It'll save us a lot of money.”
Jean blinked at her. “Well, uh,” he began. When he felt the old man watching them both, he snagged Winry's shoulder and turned them together so that their backs were to the desk. “You sure?” he asked quietly.
Winry waved a dismissive hand at him. “You stay on your side. I'll stay on mine,” she said. “Besides, it's only for four hours.”
His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “Right. Four hours.”
They turned back to the reception desk and accepted their single key.
~
When Winry emerged from the washroom in her sleeping shift, Jean was riffling through the upper shelves of the linen closet by the door. “You looking for a souvenir?” she joked. She watched him a moment as he pushed hangers and an iron and towels of all sizes out of his way. He had changed into his pajama pants while they had the bathroom door between them, and something about it just looked odd to Winry.
She'd never imagined a soldier, a man she'd only ever seen in uniform, doing such a civilian thing as wear blue, striped PJ pants and a sleeveless undershirt. He looked like just another person.
Jean turned toward her, a fleecy blanket draped over his arm. “Thought maybe I could steal us some bathrobes,” he replied, cracking a threadbare grin.
Winry watched him snatch up a pillow from the bed and toss it and the blanket onto the couch. Jean sank to the cushions and stretched his, indeed, considerable legs out in front of him.
“What are you doing?” Winry asked. “I'll take the couch.”
He slumped back, taking up more space than Winry thought possible. “'Scalled chivalry where I come from.”
VI. The Space Between Dream and Reality
The following morning, Winry would not be certain if she had imagined it or not. It was blurry and soft around the edges like it was a dream, but it stuck in her mind like a memory. Either way, Jean did not act in any way that could let her know one way or the other. And Winry was not bold enough to ask.
At, perhaps, six in the morning, night still decidedly settled around the hotel, Winry gradually became aware of her eyes opening, gazing over the rolling horizon on her pillow. The air kissed her face lovelessly, bitterly cold. Her breath condensed before her eyes, and through the cloud, Winry could see Jean Havoc sitting in a wooden chair under the the window.
Winry watched, the oddness of the tableau lost on her sleepy senses.
A breeze leaked through the opened window, and Jean sat motionless except his birchwood-colored hair shifting over his eyes. He took a drag off his cigarette and blew smoke out the window.
That's considerate, Winry's mind supplied.
He looked awfully solitary there under the window, the pale, halfhearted light from a waning moon making him look rather partitioned off. Winry watched him sigh resignedly, rub at his eyes hard, and finish his cigarette. And she was asleep before she could see any more.
OMAKE:
Jean stood at the counter, beaming-it was the sort of smile that had no business being out after less than four hours of sleep-at the young barista, who blushed and fluttered and tittered. Winry could hear him saying low, charming things to her. And the girl chirruped like a chickadee.
It was working, though, because the girl did not seem to notice Winry stuffing danishes and croissants and bagels from the continental breakfast-Dine-In Only, the sign said-into her pockets and bag. And when Jean came up to her and handed her a paper cup of coffee, Winry whispered, “Jackpot,” conspiratorially.