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Lieutenant Havers is what the Captain considers to be as close to perfect as any man can be.
He is intelligent, both in the classical, literary sense and in the way he is quick to understand people and their intentions. He is easy to talk to with every conversation with him flowing like a river, leaving one thirsty in its absence. He is well organised, never rushing or running late. Somehow, he always finds that sweet spot between too early and on time.
And none of that is to mention his physical capabilities. There is a surety about him as he moves, even as he navigates through the mundanity of life. There is a sturdiness to his form, a promise of firm, lithe muscle with an appropriate amount of padding. He proves his physical prowess every time they do drills or go for a run, and it is almost mesmerising to watch him playing cricket.
Furthermore, there is no denying that Havers is a handsome chap, but not too beautiful as to suggest vanity. His brown hair should be boring but instead glows in the sun, the creases in his face only make him seem more distinguished than old, and his already charming smile is naturally framed by dimples. It is wholly, deeply unfair that his good looks should be so effortless.
Even worse, he’s one of those perfect people that are just so humble and kind that you can’t even feel spiteful towards them. It is most infuriating at times, but the Captain wouldn’t have him any other way.
He is the perfect man in the Captain’s eyes, which makes what has just occurred all the more horrifying.
Despite trying to sleep past 0500 hours, the Captain could not get his mind to quieten down and had relented to insomnia, pulling on his dressing gown and heading downstairs for a cup of tea. He hadn’t expected anyone to be awake, so seeing Havers at the kitchen counter in his own dressing gown came as a bit of a shock. But that soon became the least of his worries when he saw what Havers had done.
“Good Lord!” the Captain wheezes, his hand clutching at his heart in shock.
Havers looks up with wide, panicked eyes. “Sir?”
“W-what on Earth are you doing, man?”
He watches as Havers looks down at the contents of his hands back up to the Captain’s panic-creased face.
“I-I’m making a cup of tea, sir.”
“No,” the Captain chokes out, shaking his head in despair. “That is no cup of tea.”
The liquid in that godforsaken cup is as white as snow on a winter’s morning. It’s as pale as a ghost and as weak as a butterfly on chloroform. Dimly, the Captain wonders what poor cow gave up all the milk that has been wasted on this sorry excuse for a cup of tea. He stares in abject horror at this monstrosity’s creator, in whose eyes the Captain can see the reflection of this despicable, dairy-based deed.
“What have you done?” the Captain whispers.
The corners of Havers’ mouth twitch and the Captain narrows his eyes. The Lieutenant doesn’t seem to be taking this nearly as seriously as the Captain would expect.
“Captain, I’ve brought you tea countless times, and you haven’t reacted like this before.”
“Well, you have never tried to present me with... that!” splutters the Captain.
“Because this tea is for me, sir,” Havers says, unable to keep his smile at bay any longer. “I know how you like your tea and I know how I like mine. Goodness knows you have your tea more potent than Barnaby’s moonshine, but I don’t look at you like you’ve just kicked a small dog when I see you drink it!”
That is true. Havers always brings the Captain two cups of tea every day, at 0900 hours and 1500 hours like clockwork. Even that time when Havers was down with a dreadful case of the flu and the Captain practically had to force him into bed. (He had poured that cup of tea down the sink, unwilling to consume whatever virus was lurking in the depths of that cup, despite his gratefulness for Havers’ intent). Of course, such menial work was perhaps better suited to one of the privates, or it would be more appropriate for the Captain to pick up his backside and make his own damn tea. However, the Captain can’t bring himself to give up the sound of those three even knocks at his office door, only for Havers to come in, his eyes already smiling before crossing the threshold.
How he looks forward to those visits every single day. The Captain has never had a second in command like Havers. In all of Havers’ time at Button House, he has never been anything less than kind to the Captain, supporting him where previous subordinates have faltered, strategising with him where others have laughed him off, caring for him when even the Captain himself has forgotten to.
All of a sudden, the Captain is struck with a thought:
How, now, could he function without Havers at his side?
“Are you alright, sir?”
The Captain’s head snaps back up from where he had zoned out, staring at the tea.
“Yes, yes. I apologise for my overreaction, Havers,” he says, sheepishly. “Took me by surprise, is all.”
Although the Captain still eyes the cup with distrust, the Lieutenant just laughs.
Havers touches his shoulder and reassures him, “No harm done, sir. Besides, I like it when a man sticks to his principles.”
The Captain ducks his head to hide his pleased flush.
Perhaps Havers is still the perfect man, even if he does make tea wrong.
“Besides, you haven’t seen how much sugar I have yet.”
Oh, Good Lord.