Fic - "Affairs of State"
Title: Affairs of State
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Shou Tucker. Fullmetal Alchemist [first anime series].
Word Count: 1062
Rating: PG
Summary: A promise kept.
Warnings: Hint of slash.
Notes: The second fic in the Whiskey and Wine series, centered on the Roy/Shou pairing.
If there’s one good thing to be said about Bradley’s big State dinners, it’s that there’s always plenty to drink.
Not that Roy plans to drink himself into oblivion- he needs to stay sharp on occasions like this, surrounded by competition, never knowing when an opportunity to catch the eye of those who could promote him will present itself. He cherishes the steady flow of alcohol because of the effect it has on those around him, softening their edges, lowering their guards just enough. Roy makes a point of nursing one drink for as long as he can, watching as the servers move about with trays initially filled with drinks, then with the empty glasses they’re collecting.
He spots the group of newly-christened State Alchemists, who have unconsciously grouped together, seeking refuge in the comfortable familiarity of their classmates. Gleaming against the dark blue of their uniforms, a loop of silver chain hangs at each hip. Although he was present at all of their trials, Roy doesn’t recognize a single one of them. All of the military candidates this year were routine and predictable. As for civilian candidates-
As if on cue, he hears a soft voice behind him call timidly, “Lieutenant Colonel?”
He turns and sees Shou Tucker, looking considerably better than the last time he saw him bent double and vomiting up his nerves in an alley a block away from his alchemic demonstration. As opposed to the frazzled mess he was before, Tucker is now sleek and groomed, wearing a crisp dark suit so new that he almost certainly bought it for this occasion. He still doesn’t look entirely comfortable, but Roy will eventually learn that he always looks vaguely uneasy, whether at a State dinner or an evening at home.
“Mr. Tucker,” Mustang says warmly. “Or should I say Major Tucker?”
He gives a friendly salute and Tucker laughs nervously, unsure how to respond.
“I hadn’t realized I’d be getting a military rank,” he confesses. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to salute properly.”
Roy glances at his hip and doesn’t see the silver chain. Then again, Tucker isn’t in uniform- he probably just has the watch in his jacket pocket. When Roy received his watch, he wanted nothing more than to display it where everyone could see. Perhaps Tucker simply doesn’t have the same sense of vanity that most alchemists seem to possess.
“I’ve heard that a rank isn’t the only thing you received,” Mustang observes. “Brigadier General Gran has secured you a residence here in Central. He seems to be showing a particular interest in your work.”
“I only hope I can live up to his expectations.” Tucker says modestly.
“I was sorry to hear about your chimera,” Roy continues. “A shame to lose it before it could be properly studied.”
He sees the flicker in Tucker’s gaze, but the other man seems to make a point of not breaking eye contact, disguising any kind of flinch that the reminder may have caused by shrugging nonchalantly, offering half of a smile.
“These things happen,” he answers. “Obviously, the process needs work. Now I’ll have the funds and the time to... well.”
Tucker clearly doesn’t like to reveal too much about himself, and he breaks off and glances away, shrugging again to cover up his sudden silence. Roy is always intrigued when he meets a kindred secretive spirit, a fellow master in the art of playing your cards close to the vest. Something about Tucker’s elusiveness suggests that he has far more going on in his head than he lets on. Roy approves.
He’s about to comment on it when Tucker suddenly looks back at him, his eyes pained. He takes a step closer.
“Listen,” he says quietly. “About- our last meeting.”
“Mr. Tucker, if you-“
“No, I just- I wanted to apologize for how I behaved.” Tucker bares his teeth for a split-second, a flash of self-loathing, his voice bitter. “What you must think of me.”
“I think it was a perfectly understandable reaction.” Mustang keeps his voice low and reassuring. “You don’t have to-“
“I do. And I wanted to- thank you. For your courtesy.” Tucker looks up into his eyes, offering a smile of surprising sincerity. “It’s a rare thing these days. To be treated well by a stranger.”
Roy considers a spoken response, then decides against it- instead, he simply nods his head graciously. Tucker mirrors the action, then reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a folded white handkerchief, clean and meticulously pressed. Roy smiles immediately in spite of himself.
“Well, would you look at that,” he chuckles.
“I’m a man of my word.”
Tucker offers the handkerchief and Roy accepts it- but his hand sinks under the unexpected weight of it. Seeing the movement, Tucker’s eyes widen, realizing his error a moment too late. He retrieves the article and unfolds it, revealing his own silver pocket watch wrapped protectively inside. He shoves the watch into his trouser pocket, re-folds the handkerchief, and gives it silently back to Roy, unable to look at him out of embarrassment.
Sensing that it would be best to let the matter go, Roy does not remark on the gesture- instead, he stores it in his memory, planning to ask him about it another day, when the sting of awkwardness doesn’t garble Tucker’s reasoning.
“I should-“ Tucker gestures weakly at the party around them. “I suppose I should speak with my benefactor.”
“I saw the Brigadier General over by the gallery,” Roy indicates a direction. “Not long ago.”
“Right. Well. That’s where I’ll look.”
Tucker almost slips away then, ghostlike, into the crowd. But although he possesses the capacity and instinct for flight, he visibly forces himself to hesitate, turn up his head, and look Roy right in the eye. He offers his hand.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” he says coolly.
Mustang accepts his hand. Tucker does not have a soldier’s firm grip- he has the thin, delicate hand of an artist, and it shivers, bird-like, in Roy’s powerful grasp. They shake cordially.
“Major Tucker,” he answers.
They go their separate ways, and Tucker’s shuffling form is quickly lost amid the sea of partygoers. For the rest of the night, Roy keeps one eye out for him, but aside from a brief glimpse of him drifting in the Brigadier General’s shadow, he does not stay.
_____end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Roy Mustang, Shou Tucker. Fullmetal Alchemist [first anime series].
Word Count: 1062
Rating: PG
Summary: A promise kept.
Warnings: Hint of slash.
Notes: The second fic in the Whiskey and Wine series, centered on the Roy/Shou pairing.
If there’s one good thing to be said about Bradley’s big State dinners, it’s that there’s always plenty to drink.
Not that Roy plans to drink himself into oblivion- he needs to stay sharp on occasions like this, surrounded by competition, never knowing when an opportunity to catch the eye of those who could promote him will present itself. He cherishes the steady flow of alcohol because of the effect it has on those around him, softening their edges, lowering their guards just enough. Roy makes a point of nursing one drink for as long as he can, watching as the servers move about with trays initially filled with drinks, then with the empty glasses they’re collecting.
He spots the group of newly-christened State Alchemists, who have unconsciously grouped together, seeking refuge in the comfortable familiarity of their classmates. Gleaming against the dark blue of their uniforms, a loop of silver chain hangs at each hip. Although he was present at all of their trials, Roy doesn’t recognize a single one of them. All of the military candidates this year were routine and predictable. As for civilian candidates-
As if on cue, he hears a soft voice behind him call timidly, “Lieutenant Colonel?”
He turns and sees Shou Tucker, looking considerably better than the last time he saw him bent double and vomiting up his nerves in an alley a block away from his alchemic demonstration. As opposed to the frazzled mess he was before, Tucker is now sleek and groomed, wearing a crisp dark suit so new that he almost certainly bought it for this occasion. He still doesn’t look entirely comfortable, but Roy will eventually learn that he always looks vaguely uneasy, whether at a State dinner or an evening at home.
“Mr. Tucker,” Mustang says warmly. “Or should I say Major Tucker?”
He gives a friendly salute and Tucker laughs nervously, unsure how to respond.
“I hadn’t realized I’d be getting a military rank,” he confesses. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to salute properly.”
Roy glances at his hip and doesn’t see the silver chain. Then again, Tucker isn’t in uniform- he probably just has the watch in his jacket pocket. When Roy received his watch, he wanted nothing more than to display it where everyone could see. Perhaps Tucker simply doesn’t have the same sense of vanity that most alchemists seem to possess.
“I’ve heard that a rank isn’t the only thing you received,” Mustang observes. “Brigadier General Gran has secured you a residence here in Central. He seems to be showing a particular interest in your work.”
“I only hope I can live up to his expectations.” Tucker says modestly.
“I was sorry to hear about your chimera,” Roy continues. “A shame to lose it before it could be properly studied.”
He sees the flicker in Tucker’s gaze, but the other man seems to make a point of not breaking eye contact, disguising any kind of flinch that the reminder may have caused by shrugging nonchalantly, offering half of a smile.
“These things happen,” he answers. “Obviously, the process needs work. Now I’ll have the funds and the time to... well.”
Tucker clearly doesn’t like to reveal too much about himself, and he breaks off and glances away, shrugging again to cover up his sudden silence. Roy is always intrigued when he meets a kindred secretive spirit, a fellow master in the art of playing your cards close to the vest. Something about Tucker’s elusiveness suggests that he has far more going on in his head than he lets on. Roy approves.
He’s about to comment on it when Tucker suddenly looks back at him, his eyes pained. He takes a step closer.
“Listen,” he says quietly. “About- our last meeting.”
“Mr. Tucker, if you-“
“No, I just- I wanted to apologize for how I behaved.” Tucker bares his teeth for a split-second, a flash of self-loathing, his voice bitter. “What you must think of me.”
“I think it was a perfectly understandable reaction.” Mustang keeps his voice low and reassuring. “You don’t have to-“
“I do. And I wanted to- thank you. For your courtesy.” Tucker looks up into his eyes, offering a smile of surprising sincerity. “It’s a rare thing these days. To be treated well by a stranger.”
Roy considers a spoken response, then decides against it- instead, he simply nods his head graciously. Tucker mirrors the action, then reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a folded white handkerchief, clean and meticulously pressed. Roy smiles immediately in spite of himself.
“Well, would you look at that,” he chuckles.
“I’m a man of my word.”
Tucker offers the handkerchief and Roy accepts it- but his hand sinks under the unexpected weight of it. Seeing the movement, Tucker’s eyes widen, realizing his error a moment too late. He retrieves the article and unfolds it, revealing his own silver pocket watch wrapped protectively inside. He shoves the watch into his trouser pocket, re-folds the handkerchief, and gives it silently back to Roy, unable to look at him out of embarrassment.
Sensing that it would be best to let the matter go, Roy does not remark on the gesture- instead, he stores it in his memory, planning to ask him about it another day, when the sting of awkwardness doesn’t garble Tucker’s reasoning.
“I should-“ Tucker gestures weakly at the party around them. “I suppose I should speak with my benefactor.”
“I saw the Brigadier General over by the gallery,” Roy indicates a direction. “Not long ago.”
“Right. Well. That’s where I’ll look.”
Tucker almost slips away then, ghostlike, into the crowd. But although he possesses the capacity and instinct for flight, he visibly forces himself to hesitate, turn up his head, and look Roy right in the eye. He offers his hand.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” he says coolly.
Mustang accepts his hand. Tucker does not have a soldier’s firm grip- he has the thin, delicate hand of an artist, and it shivers, bird-like, in Roy’s powerful grasp. They shake cordially.
“Major Tucker,” he answers.
They go their separate ways, and Tucker’s shuffling form is quickly lost amid the sea of partygoers. For the rest of the night, Roy keeps one eye out for him, but aside from a brief glimpse of him drifting in the Brigadier General’s shadow, he does not stay.
_____end.