Summary: Riza has a problem.
Notes: Written for Royai week.
Stolen
Breda brings her a glass of water.
"Drink up, Hawkeye," he says, and she does—to no avail.
Fuery next, recommending an obscure old ritual that involves raising both arms and opening her mouth wide and humming "Happy Birthday" backwards through her nose. She can see the colonel's smirk widening over Fuery's shoulder and declines an attempt.
Falman describes in minute detail the misfiring reflex of the diaphragm, the mechanism of nerves and muscles which traps air and then forces it out at over-frequent intervals. He's just starting in on techniques to stimulate the vagus nerve when someone aims a clipboard at his head.
"Aw, come on," Havoc sighs, tossing aside his work. "You know the solution—gotta scare the hiccups away."
So they all try. The colonel observes all from behind his desk, still smirking, but there's just no sneaking up on Hawkeye. She doesn't so much as flinch at shouts. They try jumping out from behind doors, dropping a few heavy books, and even one truly pathetic attempt at a scary story.
"Th-anks, guys," Riza says with a resigned, hitching sigh. "But I don't thi-ink it's going to wo-ork."
She punctuates the rest of afternoon for them with her little fits—going quiet every so often for a minute or more, but it always starts back up again. They make Fuery answer the phones for her, at least.
Five o'clock rolls around at last, and they all stand and gather their things and shuffle out, while she drops the last batch of reports on his desk.
"Your si-signature, sir."
"Right," he says with a chuckle.
"It's no-ot funny, C-Colonel."
"It's a little funny."
She glares silently, crossing to his side to gather each file as he works through them. Her hiccups hold steady, as does his smirk.
When finished, she sets the signed papers in the outbox for tomorrow, and he follows, stretching.
"P-permission to l-leave, sir?"
"Of course," he says. She nods miserably.
"Th-thanks. Hopef-fully this wi-ill go aw-way soo—mmf!"
Her first clear thought is that his lips are very, very warm against hers. He tilts her chin with thumb and curled fingers—she grips the shoulders of his jacket, the curve of his mouth fitting so perfectly against hers. She gasps, but he doesn't take advantage—pulling away just as she leans into the kiss.
She doesn't remember closing her eyes and opens them again, feeling a flood of heat travel from her face to her toes—he just smiles and licks his lips.
"Colonel, sir," she says, breathless, "what are you doing—?"
"Look at that," he says. "Guess those hiccups are gone."
His thumb just brushes her bottom lip—she hasn't let go of him yet.
"You're welcome, lieutenant."
"I don't remember thanking you," she says and pulls him back down.