Birds chirping and the sound of some dog outside barking at who knows what are what pulled you from your slumber. Your eyes slowly open only to squint from the bright morning light pouring in through the window. Thoughts of going back to sleep attempt to lure you back into their embrace before you hear groaning coming from beside you.
Rolling over onto your other side, you suddenly take notice of the small amount of weight trying to pull you in. His eyes are closed and his lips slightly parted as his bare chest heaves with every slow breath. The sight stuns you for a moment before a smile crosses your face. On most mornings he would already be gone by the time you got up. Breakfast made on a tray, a new flower in the vase on your nightstand, and his side of the bed neatly made as if you hadn't been lying there too.
Your moment of peace is short lived as his eyes start to open, almost as if he had sensed you watching him - which probably wasn't far from the truth. You whisper something along the lines of 'good morning' as he groggily does the same, black strands of hair sticking to his face and the pillow. His eyes slowly open the rest of the way, squinting a little from the light as you had done, before his gaze lands squarely on you. His normally cold and somewhat distant steel grey eyes are warmed from the hours of sleep as he manages a smile, his hand surfacing from under the sheets to gently run through your hair.
You lean against his palm, the touch familiar from all the mornings he would take the time to touch you before leaving. It's different somehow right then, but also better as the feeling of his warmth is comforting - reassuring.
"I'll be right back." His voice is still deeply laced with sleep, each word falling into place with the next that the sentence is almost incoherent. The bed creaks as he sits up to leave, a visible shudder seen from behind as his feet meet the cold floor. With your head slightly lifted off the pillow, you try not to stare as his saunters off, his form leaving almost nothing to the imagination besides his white boxer shorts. He stops walking and turns his head to look back at you, catching you red handed. "Oi," he smirks "fix your shirt." Glancing down at your top you see it's sliding off your shoulders, revealing your bra strap and cleavage as a crimson blush quickly spreads.
Your complaints about him not saying anything go unheard as he's already gone, setting out to do whatever he set out to do. Sitting up, you can't help but look out and down the window, expecting to see soldiers on horseback at any moment. That was also something you were used to.
'Humanities strongest and last hope…' you say aloud before a small sigh, your hands quickly moving to close the curtains. Almost every day he would head out with nothing more than a glance, leaving no promise of his return. That's what it meant to be on the scouting corps. Everyone knew that. He knew that. Even you knew that. But it didn't make worrying any more avoidable.
The flower every morning was more than just a gentle sentiment, it was his way of saying that he was still there. There was one time an excursion had taken weeks and the flower had wilted and died, only to be replaced in the night with a new one and a plate of bacon and eggs beside it.
"Cut it out." His voice snaps you back as he comes back inside and sits down next to you. Beside him is a wicker tray with two mugs of coffee, a small dish of cream, a couple of sugar cubes, a pair of bagels and some jam. Your face must have looked like you wanted to say something as he sighed and cut you off, not giving you the chance. "It's going to get cold." With his hand outstretched to you, he waits until your hand is in his before pulling you closer to rest in his lap.
His chest isn't the most comfortable of places to relax, the scars and muscle a little worrisome but you settle in soon enough, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. With a bit of shuffling he hands you your mug, the cream and sugar all for you as he takes a sip from his, preferring the strong taste over the sweetened options.
The room is silent as he drinks and goes over some paperwork, your mug still more than halfway full. If he had been anyone else, words of comfort would be echoing through the room. But he wasn't anyone else. Rivaille wasn't one to let people close to him or see him at anything less than his very best and then some. So sitting leaned against him while he attempted to fully wake up was something special. Something that was all yours and no one else's.
You wouldn't figure it out until later but he had pulled you close because he had seen your face. He saw the worry as you had glanced out the window. He had noticed how the flower he left every morning had moved closer to your side of the bed. He noticed how you slept with the window cracked to listen out for him coming home at night. He knew more about you than you'd ever know, and he only showed it in the ways he knew how.