If you follow me on tumblr, you'll have noticed I'm producing a lot of art (and little writing lmao). I promise I won't forget these fics! There are definitely endgames for what's already been published and I'm trying my best not to publish multi-chapter fics without planning them out properly, haha. We're almost halfway on this depressing journey! Yay!
Warning: brief mention of suicide.
It has only been one day since Captain Hawkeye has died but already the rumour mill at Eastern City Headquarters has been run into overdrive.
Havoc fucking hates it – so much for Mary from archives taking the heat off them.
It doesn't matter in the end; people have apparently enough sense not to approach him or Fuery (though Jean is certain people are simply forgetting that the man is part of the core team). His morning is relatively quiet and he manages to complete some paperwork.
The afternoon turns more hectic. He blames the lunch hour – a small hour where information is quickly passed from person to person, each time twisted and pulled into a new form until he starts hearing of insurance scams and suicide and he cannot take it anymore.
He nods to Fuery on his way out and carefully ignores the stares and whispers that follow him throughout the compound.
I heard that they were lovers.
He smothered her with a pillow.
She was going to blackmail him.
She walked in on him with another woman.
They'd had an awful fight.
Her neighbours said that they heard shots.
Each distortion makes him sick to his stomach and he grows angry at how callously she is being treated. Captain Hawkeye, who in life, had been well-respected and liked by her peers at East City was suddenly thrown under the bus because they didn't know the details and thought that they deserved to know.
He nearly slams the door behind him as he makes his way out onto the parade grounds, quickly cutting across onto the side exit on Bourke Avenue. Jean stands for a moment by the exit, breathing deeply and counting the cars and trucks going past. He counts sixty-eight cars and twenty-three trucks before he feels himself beginning to relax – there is a stabbing pain in his neck that he can tell won't go away soon and he realises with annoyance that he left his cigarettes on his desk.
It's not too far to Pinewood Avenue from here, he thinks, adjusting his collar and pointedly ignoring the gaping soldier next to him who has just realised who he is. He was going to skip out of work early anyway, and the Madame will no doubt have a small job for him to do. He shrugs on his coat quickly, praying to whatever might be listening to give him enough strength to ignore the comments beginning to stream out of the young soldier's mouth.
…It also wouldn't be a bad idea to find out how the General is faring. Larissa had dropped by Fuery's this morning but had little in the way of information – and neither Jean nor Fuery knew whether to interpret that as good or bad omen. He was glad he was not there for when the man woke up – that was a conversation that he doubts anybody could prepare for and the Madame was a bloody saint in his eyes for taking the man in under such awful circumstances.
Perhaps time had softened the blow.
Jean doubts that is the case.
It's quiet on Pinewood Avenue as he makes his way to the saloon – the wind today is a bitter one, cutting into his skin sharply. He's grateful to slip into the saloon – Matilda is out front today, and she looks a little confused at his entrance.
"Did something else happen?" she asks, moving from behind the bar to greet him properly, helping him out of his coat. Jean shakes his head.
"The rumours were getting…awful," he manages, and Matilda sighs sympathetically, guiding him to a bar stool and throwing his coat onto a nearby chaise lounge without a second glance.
"Tea?" she asks him, moving back behind the bar and pulling out several small boxes. He nods, drumming his fingers on the polished cedar. He could really go for a smoke right now.
Matilda is quick and efficient, steeping the tea just right and winking as she brings out an old tin full of what looks like home baking. "This is only for the nice ones," she says conspiratorially.
The tea is hot and bursting with tannins. Jean doesn't know whether his grief has made him suddenly appreciate what is essentially boiled leaf water, but he is grateful nonetheless for a distraction.
Matilda nurses her own cup of tea which smells of spice and bergamot. "Do you need me to pass along a message to Madame?" she asks him, nabbing another biscuit from the rusting tin. Jean shakes his head.
"Where are they?" he asks, noticing for the first time how truly empty the saloon is this afternoon. He knows it is a Tuesday, but still –
"They went out this morning," Matilda replies quietly. Her fingers grip her teacup tightly, her knuckles almost blanching white. "I've never seen Roy so…" she trails off, biting her lip and blinking furiously. She shakes her head quickly. "They won't be back until late tonight, I think. You're welcome to stay if you need to." She takes another sip of tea, her hands only shaking slightly as she holds her teacup.
Jean nods, and drinks some more tea. It's a nice reprieve from Eastern Command, from how his life has suddenly flipped upside down. Thursday morning is looming ever closer and while Jean knows he should be focusing on his work and trying to get as much done as possible done before her funeral, he doesn't think Riza would begrudge him a cup of tea.
He laughs a little under his breath. No, she definitely would.
A comfortable silence falls over the two of them and Jean watches as the leaves that slipped past the strainer make strange patterns in the bottom of his teacup.
"Do you want me to read your leaves?" he asks Matilda suddenly. This is either a terrible idea or the best he's had all week and her resulting smile and offered cup makes him think that, with time, there's a chance they might be alright after all.
"Alright," he begins, swirling the dregs in her cup three times in a clockwise direction, before placing the saucer on top. "Are you ready to learn when you'll finally get married?"
Matilda giggles. "So long as it's not to you, Mr. Havoc."
He smiles, upturning the cup and saucer and tapping the teacup three times. "I can guarantee nothing but the truth, my dear."