The Hands of a Soldier (Roy Mustang/Jean Havoc; the palms of his two black hands)
Title: The Hands of a Soldier
Character(s): Roy Mustang/Jean Havoc
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: the palms of his two black hands
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: A soldier wasn't a soldier without a weapon - it didn't matter what that weapon was. It was all the same, in the end.
Author's Notes: Dark themes, contains full series spoilers.
The gun lay on the bedside table, resting between the small lamp and a thin paperback book - some penny-dreadful detective novel. Both book and gun had only called the small table home for a handful of months, but already they seemed as though they belonged. They were such small things, really. One just a stack of bound paper, the other simply a compilation of metals. Nothing remarkable at all.
Roy Mustang was sitting on the edge of the bed. His jacket was off, hung on the back of a chair. His white undershirt was partially unbuttoned, exposing the hollow of his throat. He still had his boots on. He reached for the gun and lifted it gingerly from the table.
To Jean Havoc, who watched silently from the doorway, it looked like Roy held the gun awkwardly. But how often had the colonel’s hands ever held a gun? He didn’t need one. Jean frowned thoughtfully and folded his arms, watching as Roy turned the weapon over and over in his hands. It was just a small gun - a pistol, sleek and dark and only 8 inches from the tip of the barrel to the hammer. Standard military issue, at least these days. But it must have been fascinating to Roy, who held it like some strange and precious object.
“You looking to get some lessons on shooting,” Jean finally drawled, wondering what Roy was so intrigued by. The dark haired man started and looked up sharply, single eye first wide and then narrowed.
“I didn’t realize you were done downstairs.”
“Been done awhile.” Jean crossed the room and sat beside Roy, his weight causing the bed beneath them to creak. “Didn’t think you liked guns much.”
“I don’t.” And Roy set the pistol aside, back on the table, between the lamp and the detective novel.
“I do,” Jean said, leaning back some. “Course, it helps that I’m good with them.”
“And what do you like so much about them?” Roy asked, his voice oddly hollow.
“It’s hard to explain.” Jean reached across him and picked the gun up himself, familiar with its weight and balance. “I like the way they feel, I like the way they work, I like the way they look. I just feel right with a gun in my hand - I’ve been shooting ever since I was a kid. Used to go out back and shoot cans off tree stumps and stuff like that. I guess… well, I guess it’s kind of because a gun’s not a gun without a person, and a soldier’s not a soldier without a weapon. We need each other.” He laughed some and shook his head. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”
Roy didn’t answer. He was looking at his hands, bare of gloves, palms turned up. Jean rested his elbows on his knees, his hands and the gun dangling between his thighs.
“I guess,” Jean went on, “it’s like your alchemy. It’s part of you. It’s not just what you do, it’s who you are. You’ve got your transmutations and your arrays and your fancy gloves - I’ve got bullets and pistols and rifles.”
“Guns,” Roy said, slowly, “make killing too easy.”
“You don’t shoot much, do you?” Jean joked. Shooting wasn’t easy, he thought. It was hard as hell, especially if there was a human target. And for more than technical reasons, though there were a million tiny technical details. But because you had to aim, and you had to aim for a vital spot and you knew what it was going to do. Jean Havoc knew exactly what each and every one of his guns did to a man. He knew which bullets cut through flesh clean, which ones burst on impact, which ones could take off a man’s arms. It wasn’t easy to line up the sights and squeeze trigger.
“It distances a soldier from the enemy,” Roy went on, still looking at his own hands and not Jean or the current topic of conversation. “You aren’t the one who kills another man, the weapon does it for you.”
“I’m the one with the weapon, Roy,” Jean said, gently. “I’m the one who pulls the trigger. Like I said, it’s like your alchemy. My gun, your fire, it’s still us that controls‘em both. I mean, yeah, there’s guys that let a weapon get between them and feeling. But it doesn’t matter what the weapon is, ‘cause it’s the guy that’s cutting himself off. Hell, give him a stick and he’d probably the same way. Some guys just shut down inside when it comes to being a soldier. And I think they make pretty shitty soldiers.”
“They get the job done,” Roy said with a small, bitter noise.
“You and me both know there’s more to being a soldier than just killing people.” He set the gun aside and dropped his hand on Roy’s knee, squeezing. It was still strange, to touch Roy and to talk so freely and to share the other man’s bed. And maybe it always would be, because they were soldiers and there were some things that weren’t talked about or done. And it was still strange to see Roy so naked and open and raw.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time wondering.” Jean grinned some and rested his forehead against Roy’s temple, wondering what had triggered the other man’s mood. If anything.
“Perhaps.”
Jean just shook his head and reached for Roy’s hand, twining his fingers through the other man’s. Roy’s hands were soft, smooth. Jean’s knew his own were calloused, rough and worn from metal and sweat and abrasions. And he knew that Roy’s hands were just as scarred and marked, in ways that didn’t show on the skin. And he knew that was what the other man was seeing, when he looked down at his palms.
“It’s all the same in the end, anyway,” Jean muttered. “Doesn’t matter how it’s done. You’re a good soldier and a damn good commander. You know I’d follow you anywhere.”
“Because you’re my lieutenant, or because you’re my lover?”
“Both.” Jean pressed a kiss to Roy’s cheekbone, squeezing his hand. He let the moment spin out, wind down, fade away. “Now how about we quit with the doom and gloom and have some grub?”
Roy didn’t answer. He ran a finger across the calloused pads of Jean’s palm and stood. He looked once at the pistol on the nightstand and smiled a small, distant smile before running his hand through Jean’s hair almost playfully and turning to leave the bedroom.
Character(s): Roy Mustang/Jean Havoc
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: the palms of his two black hands
Word Count: 1,200
Summary: A soldier wasn't a soldier without a weapon - it didn't matter what that weapon was. It was all the same, in the end.
Author's Notes: Dark themes, contains full series spoilers.
The gun lay on the bedside table, resting between the small lamp and a thin paperback book - some penny-dreadful detective novel. Both book and gun had only called the small table home for a handful of months, but already they seemed as though they belonged. They were such small things, really. One just a stack of bound paper, the other simply a compilation of metals. Nothing remarkable at all.
Roy Mustang was sitting on the edge of the bed. His jacket was off, hung on the back of a chair. His white undershirt was partially unbuttoned, exposing the hollow of his throat. He still had his boots on. He reached for the gun and lifted it gingerly from the table.
To Jean Havoc, who watched silently from the doorway, it looked like Roy held the gun awkwardly. But how often had the colonel’s hands ever held a gun? He didn’t need one. Jean frowned thoughtfully and folded his arms, watching as Roy turned the weapon over and over in his hands. It was just a small gun - a pistol, sleek and dark and only 8 inches from the tip of the barrel to the hammer. Standard military issue, at least these days. But it must have been fascinating to Roy, who held it like some strange and precious object.
“You looking to get some lessons on shooting,” Jean finally drawled, wondering what Roy was so intrigued by. The dark haired man started and looked up sharply, single eye first wide and then narrowed.
“I didn’t realize you were done downstairs.”
“Been done awhile.” Jean crossed the room and sat beside Roy, his weight causing the bed beneath them to creak. “Didn’t think you liked guns much.”
“I don’t.” And Roy set the pistol aside, back on the table, between the lamp and the detective novel.
“I do,” Jean said, leaning back some. “Course, it helps that I’m good with them.”
“And what do you like so much about them?” Roy asked, his voice oddly hollow.
“It’s hard to explain.” Jean reached across him and picked the gun up himself, familiar with its weight and balance. “I like the way they feel, I like the way they work, I like the way they look. I just feel right with a gun in my hand - I’ve been shooting ever since I was a kid. Used to go out back and shoot cans off tree stumps and stuff like that. I guess… well, I guess it’s kind of because a gun’s not a gun without a person, and a soldier’s not a soldier without a weapon. We need each other.” He laughed some and shook his head. “I’m not making much sense, am I?”
Roy didn’t answer. He was looking at his hands, bare of gloves, palms turned up. Jean rested his elbows on his knees, his hands and the gun dangling between his thighs.
“I guess,” Jean went on, “it’s like your alchemy. It’s part of you. It’s not just what you do, it’s who you are. You’ve got your transmutations and your arrays and your fancy gloves - I’ve got bullets and pistols and rifles.”
“Guns,” Roy said, slowly, “make killing too easy.”
“You don’t shoot much, do you?” Jean joked. Shooting wasn’t easy, he thought. It was hard as hell, especially if there was a human target. And for more than technical reasons, though there were a million tiny technical details. But because you had to aim, and you had to aim for a vital spot and you knew what it was going to do. Jean Havoc knew exactly what each and every one of his guns did to a man. He knew which bullets cut through flesh clean, which ones burst on impact, which ones could take off a man’s arms. It wasn’t easy to line up the sights and squeeze trigger.
“It distances a soldier from the enemy,” Roy went on, still looking at his own hands and not Jean or the current topic of conversation. “You aren’t the one who kills another man, the weapon does it for you.”
“I’m the one with the weapon, Roy,” Jean said, gently. “I’m the one who pulls the trigger. Like I said, it’s like your alchemy. My gun, your fire, it’s still us that controls‘em both. I mean, yeah, there’s guys that let a weapon get between them and feeling. But it doesn’t matter what the weapon is, ‘cause it’s the guy that’s cutting himself off. Hell, give him a stick and he’d probably the same way. Some guys just shut down inside when it comes to being a soldier. And I think they make pretty shitty soldiers.”
“They get the job done,” Roy said with a small, bitter noise.
“You and me both know there’s more to being a soldier than just killing people.” He set the gun aside and dropped his hand on Roy’s knee, squeezing. It was still strange, to touch Roy and to talk so freely and to share the other man’s bed. And maybe it always would be, because they were soldiers and there were some things that weren’t talked about or done. And it was still strange to see Roy so naked and open and raw.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t spend so much time wondering.” Jean grinned some and rested his forehead against Roy’s temple, wondering what had triggered the other man’s mood. If anything.
“Perhaps.”
Jean just shook his head and reached for Roy’s hand, twining his fingers through the other man’s. Roy’s hands were soft, smooth. Jean’s knew his own were calloused, rough and worn from metal and sweat and abrasions. And he knew that Roy’s hands were just as scarred and marked, in ways that didn’t show on the skin. And he knew that was what the other man was seeing, when he looked down at his palms.
“It’s all the same in the end, anyway,” Jean muttered. “Doesn’t matter how it’s done. You’re a good soldier and a damn good commander. You know I’d follow you anywhere.”
“Because you’re my lieutenant, or because you’re my lover?”
“Both.” Jean pressed a kiss to Roy’s cheekbone, squeezing his hand. He let the moment spin out, wind down, fade away. “Now how about we quit with the doom and gloom and have some grub?”
Roy didn’t answer. He ran a finger across the calloused pads of Jean’s palm and stood. He looked once at the pistol on the nightstand and smiled a small, distant smile before running his hand through Jean’s hair almost playfully and turning to leave the bedroom.