Summary: Habits are not easily broken. [RivailleMikasa]
Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer applies.
A/N: Enjoy!
Next Time
She is in his office, punctual, as per the norm, the customary scowl he is so used to seeing engraved, seemingly permanently, onto her lips. She decidedly doesn't like him, and Rivaille relishes the fact. He is nothing if not a little masochistic. Why else would he put himself repeatedly through the torture of these barked lectures on account of the girl's perpetual inability to follow orders?
Oh, yes. That's right. Because if he doesn't beat the concept of preservation into her head, he won't have to suffer these lectures anymore. Though a somewhat alluring prospect generally, in the long run, he'd miss the chance to exercise his repertoire. And her. A little. Maybe. Probably not.
Not if he can help it, anyway.
At any rate, here she is again, prepared for another session of uncomprehending head nodding and irritable growling. Sometimes, very seldom, he amuses himself with the image of Mikasa as a puppy Doberman, most certainly able, but not yet trained well enough, to strike. Just like a puppy, the young woman looks rather better suited for baths and toys than combat and weaponry, and it almost makes sense, almost, that she doesn't comprehend, or doesn't want to comprehend, this foreign to her concept of orders. Puppies are playful, after all. She isn't, but that doesn't make the need for discipline any less pressing.
"Well, well, brat."
He accentuates the derogatory pet name; she glowers. Really, some things never change, and he doesn't want them to.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say you once again disregarded a direct order just to end up in my company, tête-à-tête." The over articulation of the French seemingly hits a nerve, and she growls. Like usual.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say your ego's showing."
But she knows better. His ego reaches proportions that his height never did. Ah, well, he can only suppose that perfection has to be marred in some way or other. Height is just as good a characteristic to screw up as any, right? Supposedly, yes, but he can't help but briefly wonder why luck, that fickle bitch of a sham concept, decided to cheat him to such an extent.
The extent of no less than a foot.
Was it something he did?
Ha.
Probably. He doesn't remember ever being accused of anything he didn't do. Coincidentally, he also doesn't remember ever being accused of anything he didn't enjoy doing. Go figure.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Ackerman."
Flattery, however, isn't exactly what she's going for, and the deepening scowl on her lips only attests to the fact. He can't help but yet again, as per the norm, be baffled that some find this puppy hard to read. Quite on the contrary, he finds her refreshingly straightforward. Come to think of it, isn't this clarity in intentions what makes dogs such wonderful companions?
"I'll restrain myself," she forces out past gritted teeth, the white edge of fang flashing into view.
He stares; she glares. Everything's normal.
"Please do. Your advances are tiring."
She wants to interrupt, lips parted, fangs bared, but he doesn't give her a chance. If he doesn't let her snap now, she'll do so later, with more vehemence, and the masochistic bastard that he is on the inside rejoices.
"And so is your inability to do what's good for you, brat."
"I agree," she snaps, with more vehemence, as expected. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Yes, she is, and he is no longer able to restrain the infuriating smirk that twists one corner of his mouth up. It's all par for the course, really. And when he stands up, his chair scraping, purposefully, loudly across the wooden floor, he takes a moment to fully appreciate his favorite part of the show. Approaching her in a manner that beckons the analogy of a predator stalking the pray, he comes as close as only he dares. Not many can brag meeting Mikasa Ackerman nose-to-nose, but he can. Being humanity's strongest, an unhappy abbreviation for humanity's most suicidal, has its perks, he supposes.
And currently, he's feeling particularly self-destructive, leaning closer to her lips, soaking up her warmth, and unintentionally catching sight of her dilated pupils, which are now devoid of annoyance but suffused with saturated confusion.
After a moment, after a deep breath, she leans into him.
"Tch. You know the drill. The cleaning supplies are in the closet."
Once he steps back, achieving respectable distance, he knows what's coming. He has to pay for her momentary lapse in judgment. But a hard deck to the face does nothing to deter him. He takes the punishment gladly because next time, and there is most certainly going to be a next time, he'll give in. But for now, just now, he can enjoy her huffing as she gathers up the cleaning supplies and storms out the rattling door.
"And don't think I won't conduct a white glove test after you're done!"
A/N: Let me know if you'd like me to continue! I might have an idea. :)