Fic - "The Tempest Takes"
Title: The Tempest Takes
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Jean Havoc, Shou Tucker, mentions of Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist [manga].
Word Count: 6,260
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Havoc doesn't know who he feels sorrier for: Tucker, or himself.
Warnings: Slash, masturbation, handjob, angst, a smidge of non-con for those who might be sensitive to such things. Spoilers for chapter 40. Teeniest of AUs.
Notes: Written for the Havoc round at fma_fuh_q, and also as something of a dare. When I asked raja815 for suggestions for a good crack pairing for Tucker, she answered that it would be quite fascinating (if one could muddle the canon just a teeny bit) to see Shou interacting with a hospital-bound post-40 Havoc. Once I had the thought, I couldn't let it go. The only way out was this exorcism of a fic. The title is taken from a quote from King Lear: The tempest in my mind doth from my senses take all feeling else.
Havoc wakes from an uneasy sleep to the sound of a heavy collision, metal against wood. In the pale moonlight slivering in through the window, he sees two orderlies have crept into his hospital room. They’ve just shoved the other bed, vacant for three weeks now, back into the corner, the edge of it slamming into the wall with a thump that woke the occupant of its mate.
“What’s going on?” Havoc asks in a harsh whisper, and they hiss in mutual disappointment at his wakefulness.
“It’s nothing,” one of them mutters instinctively. “Go back to sleep.”
But just as the lie leaves his tongue, another orderly appears at the door, pulling another bed, this one on wheels. He drags it into the room by the iron railings at its head, and Havoc notes with distinct interest that the foot of the bed is being steered by a uniformed soldier.
“Nothing, huh?” Havoc needles, dropping the whisper for a normal speaking tone that sounds like a shout at this hour of the night.
While the orderlies answer with synchronized commands to shush, the soldier turns directly to him and says, “Yeah. Nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to know. Go back to sleep.”
The new bed ends up in the same place as the old one. The brakes get snapped into place. As a parting gesture, the first orderly crosses close enough to Havoc to whisper, “Don’t worry, he’ll be gone in the morning.” Then all four men exit, the door closes, and Havoc is alone with his new roommate.
Although he had initially wondered why they went to all the trouble of bringing in a new bed, he quickly realizes why--- this one is outfitted with restraints, its occupant bound at the wrists and ankles. That might also explain the presence of the solider. This guy must be a prisoner of some kind, but why he would be brought into the hospital in the middle of the night and promised to be gone by morning, Havoc has no clue.
So he asks.
“Hey, buddy,” he calls in a soft voice. “Hey.”
The stranger’s chest rises and falls rapidly, short thin breaths like a bird or rabbit. In the shadows Havoc can just make out his eyes, sucking up the light and throwing it back out again, glistening huge and pale and unmistakably awake.
“I said hey,” Havoc pressures, because goddamn if this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in weeks. “What is this?”
“This,” comes an unexpectedly thin, reedy voice. “Is my final contribution to science and the State.”
And as the figure lifts up its head and shoulders--- as the moonlight catches on frayed chestnut hair and ice blue eyes--- as the face splits into a grin too wide and too wild--- Havoc realizes who he’s talking to.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he says stupidly, the first thing that comes into his mouth.
“I am dead,” Shou Tucker agrees. “Officially. Legally. Just not--- technically.”
And he drops his head back against the pillow, apparently exhausted by holding it up for barely thirty seconds. His breathing continues at its quick, queasy pace. Havoc is fumbling to pull himself into a sitting position, his senses sharper than they’ve been in a long time, energy building in his chest, tight and tense.
“Okay, Tucker, what the hell is going on?” he demands. “You’re looking pretty lively for someone who was on the wrong end of a firing squad.”
“Do I know you?” Tucker answers, his head rolling on the pillow so he can peer through the railings of his bed. “You seem so familiar.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Havoc squirms--- Tucker has eyes like a nocturnal animal, eyes that can look right through him.
“You were one of Mustang’s, weren’t you?” Tucker lifts up his head again, almost trembling with the effort. “Yes... you came... to my home. You had something important to tell me...”
The memory is unwelcome and comes too fast, plunging up through Havoc’s brain like a surge of vomit. The bright front lawn--- the Elric brothers, celebrating Fullmetal’s certification--- the little girl--- Havoc was standing barely two yards away from her as he pronounced what he would later realize was her death sentence--- “Your assessment is in two days, Mr. Tucker,”, and both of them smiling at the child--- God, was Tucker thinking of it even then? Was Havoc there the moment he decided? How could he not have sensed the other man’s intentions? He was right there. She was within his reach.
“You bastard,” he whispers. “You should be dead.”
“Yes,” admits Tucker, his heavy skull dropping back down again. “Yes, I’ve often said so myself. But the State--- waste not, want not--- they weren’t finished with me.” He gives Havoc a peculiar sidelong glance. “You’re a dog, like me. You know how they are.”
“Why weren’t they finished with you?” Havoc presses uneasily. “What did they need you for?”
“Sewing life. That’s my name.” Something comes over Tucker, his words speeding up, as if some terrible panic is welling up inside him. “I’m sorry, that was my name. But there were lives. Or there would be lives. An army of lives. Immortal. Their eyes were--- empty. They wanted me to--- sew. Lives. A living army. Sewing life. That was my name. They took my watch. My silver watch, they took it. I have no name. They have no souls.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to forget.”
“You’re crazy,” Havoc observes wearily. “That’s why they dumped you here, isn’t it? You’re completely fucking nuts.”
He had hoped that he might be able to gain something from this encounter, some information that might prove useful--- that might prove him useful--- to his former commanding officer. The hope of it was so raw and unexpected that the realization that it’s false has an almost unbearable sting. Tucker’s execution was staged--- a tantalizing truth, but meaningless without a reason for its existence.
Meaningless.
Useless.
Frustrated beyond endurance, Havoc scrubs at his staring eyes and sits back against his headboard, cursing himself for ever getting his hopes up.
“I couldn’t do it,” Tucker whispers, now to himself. “I’m a failure. Again. I was distracted. All I could think about was her... about bringing her back...”
He pulls helplessly at his restraints, whining, truly, like a dog. Havoc wishes he had a gun, wishes he could put a bullet right between those miserable eyes, and then one between his own---
No, goddamn it!
“No, goddamn it!” Tucker parrots, and Havoc hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Just shut your goddamn mouth,” he grumbles. “I want to sleep. I don’t want to listen to you yap all night.”
“I’ll be gone in the morning,” Tucker says ominously. “I heard them. They don’t think I know, but I know. I know where they’re taking me.”
“Straight to hell,” Havoc snaps, lashing out, helpless.
“It’s an experimental procedure,” the former alchemist shows through in his detached, clinical tone. “A cure for delusional and hysterical patients. A permanent cure. They strike three times. One for each temple. One between the eyes. Right into the frontal lobe. Tap, tap, tap. And you’re gone.”
“You are crazy,” Havoc spits.
Out of nowhere, Tucker’s voice goes deep and ugly, distorted by the basest kind of terror as he suddenly bawls, “Do you understand what they’re going to do to me? They are going to drive spikes into my brain and call it a cure.”
“I don’t care if they cut off your fucking head!” Havoc shouts back.
“I wish they would,” Tucker moans, and the buckles of the restraints jangle as he twists his joints uselessly against them. “I would rather die. I would rather die. They’re going to cut into my head. I won’t be able to feel anything ever again.”
And that is what slices straight down to Havoc’s core, a bright silver needle that darts past all his defenses to hit him right where it hurts. He actually raises a hand to his chest before he can stop himself, clutching at the spasm of pain right at his center, his teeth suddenly grinding against a scream. Day in and day out he won’t let himself think about it. Day in and day out he thinks about anything else, about lifting weights and writing letters and physical therapy and looking to the future. Then this stupid fuck has to come along and remind him all over again.
“I won’t be able to feel anything,” Tucker repeats, as though it’s a revelation.
“I said shut your goddamn mouth!” Havoc barks.
“You don’t understand,” mumbles Tucker self-righteously. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Listen, you little shit,” and Havoc doesn’t mean to tell him, but it comes out anyway. “I understand a hell of a lot more than you do. I’m already there.”
At Tucker’s wide-eyed stare, he simply gestures at his legs, and in a voice that shakes a little more than he intended, he confesses, “Got my spine sliced through. Waist down, I’m gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tucker whispers, and Havoc despises his sincerity so he just answers, “Fuck you.”
For a while, neither one says anything. Tucker’s skinny chest pumps up and down, too fast to be healthy, as though he’s fighting for every breath. His eyes stare up at the ceiling like searchlights. He keeps spasmodically tugging on the heavy leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, as though he keeps forgetting that he is bound, surprised every time when he can’t raise his hands. Havoc watches him with a sort of morbid delight, takes a satisfaction from his distress that he never thought himself capable of.
Every day it gets harder to fight it, the creeping sense of injustice and anger that starts right at the Line where he loses all feeling and moves steadily up through his spinal cord, the tendrils of hatred just now reaching his brain stem. He wishes so badly that he felt brave, felt strong enough to meet them at the top like he promised he would. He wishes he felt the kind of confidence in himself that they seem to have. He wishes he felt.
But sometimes, all he can feel is anger.
That’s the worst part. Because where can he direct his anger? He has so much of it. He can’t be angry at Mustang, won’t let himself be angry at Mustang. He can’t be angry at Solaris, she’s dead and burned and it was his own damn fault for letting his guard down, anyway. He can’t be angry at his mother--- can’t be angry at the doctors--- can’t be angry at the nurses---
“You don’t know how lucky you were,” Tucker mutters.
And just like that, Havoc’s anger irises in on the bed five feet away from him.
“What did you just say?” he checks, his voice dangerously calm.
“You were lucky,” Tucker clarifies. “Because you didn’t see it coming.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t have to lie awake all night, counting every breath, every tremor in your leg, every itch in your palms, knowing it would be the last time you felt it.”
“Like that’s supposed to make it better?” Havoc wishes he could get up, wishes he could take two long strides over there and sock him in the mouth. “I never had a chance to say goodbye. It was gone before I knew what I was losing. Don’t try to tell me that’s lucky. That’s hell.”
“I’ll never feel again,” Tucker whines.
“I feel nothing,” Havoc growls.
“What would you change?” Tucker asks, unexpectedly.
“Change about what?”
“If you could go back--- if you knew it was coming,” And those pale, pale eyes glow across the distance between them. “What would you change? If you could feel one last thing... what would it be?”
The answer is so fucking stupid, Havoc is glad that he has the sense to restrain it. Besides, it’s a long story, and he has neither the words nor the inclination to tell it. Tucker doesn’t need to hear about it. Tucker doesn’t deserve to hear about it, about the sweet and rare moments when Mustang would kick off his boots at the end of a long day and allow Havoc to rub his feet. He has small, pale feet, the digits almost flawless except for the smallest toe of each, which have been molded into triangles underneath from years of being swaddled in military boots. The tradition went on long enough for Havoc to learn all about him, how he winced when his heels were squeezed, how he sighed when Havoc rolled his knuckles along the arches. It was only intended to be a comradely gesture, but there were times when Roy would arch his back, his toes curling as he hissed, “Ah, Havoc, that feels so good,” and Havoc’s mind would skate to darker, deeper places of its own free will.
And always, always, Mustang would say, “Now let me return the favor.” Havoc would tense his big, ugly feet inside their boots, and he’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry about me, Boss. I’m fine.” Again and again Roy made the offer, his strong and calloused hands eager to repay the debt of comfort, and again and again Havoc turned him down. He hoped, for his own guilty sake, that Roy would stop offering, but he never did, right up until the end.
Now, when Havoc looks down at the end of the bed, when he sees the blanket tucked around the feet that he knows are there, even if he can’t feel them--- he gets the stupidest sense of regret. It’s stupid. The word ricochets but doesn’t stick. If he could convince himself that it was a waste of time, then he might be able to let it go, but the endless isolation of the hospital is having the opposite effect. Every passing day makes that goddamn foot massage into a greater paradise, makes his condition that much more unbearable, makes the Fates that much crueler.
Stupid stupid stupid.
“I dunno,” he huffs defensively, answering Tucker at last. “I’d probably jerk off one last time.”
“Oh,” Tucker murmurs, almost disappointed. “Oh. I suppose... I suppose that hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“Really.”
“I mean I hadn’t considered that, in your condition, you wouldn’t be able to... anyway.”
“Anyway?”
“Anyway it’s pointless, isn’t it?” Tucker snaps. “They’ve got me--- I’m--- well, look at me.”
He tugs noisily on his restraints. The leather creaks and the buckles jangle like coins in a pocket. Havoc sneers in amusement.
“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“She is,” Tucker agrees, and to Havoc’s surprise, his laughter is genuine. “She’s managed to fuck me one last time. I’m impressed with her tenacity.”
“You think life’s out to get you, huh?”
“Don’t you?” Tucker gives him a pointed glance. “Look at yourself. How could you not think that you’re somebody’s punching bag?”
After a pause, Havoc says softly, “I dunno, man. Maybe you’re right.”
Because even though Tucker is a monster--- even though Tucker deserves every awful thing that will ever happen to him--- what did Havoc ever do to deserve this?
“Now you’ve got me thinking about it,” Tucker chuckles weakly.
“About what?” Havoc’s mind is elsewhere.
“About... you know,” and Tucker gives a nervous cough. “One last time.”
Havoc scratches idly at the back of his neck. “Oh. That.”
“I couldn’t help but notice the... chair... next to your bed.” Tucker’s eyes are quickly growing wider, as his anxiety creeps up on him. “Can you use it?”
The wheelchair is relatively new. They’ve been encouraging him to practice getting in and out of it on his own, preparing him for a world without burly orderlies to lug his useless ass from place to place. Havoc has yet to try it without one of those very orderlies nearby to help him if he ends up on the floor. Of course, he has yet to end up on the floor at all, but the odds are impressive that the first time he tried it alone would be the first time he wiped out.
“Why should I?” he mutters, already considering it.
“As a gesture of goodwill towards your fellow man,” Tucker wheedles, then adds in all seriousness, “Your fellow punching bag.”
“You’re no punching bag,” Havoc snorts.
“Your fellow dog, then,” Tucker persists. “Dumped at the pound by a military that no longer wants us.”
“You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“I’ve got one chance. Tomorrow morning it’s all over,” In a depressingly self-aware voice, Tucker admits, “I have nothing else left.”
And God, doesn’t Havoc know exactly what that feels like, to realize that his world is contained within the railings of his hospital bed. He shudders to think that Tucker’s world is even smaller--- one bed, one night, and no future.
He throws aside his blanket and takes a good hard look at what’s left of himself. His legs have already grown thinner, wasting away from misuse. His feet look strange and deformed, almost abstract, they’re so far away from him. At times like this, he wishes he’d lost the legs entirely. It would have to be better than seeing them every day and remembering what he used to be.
Although the details are vague, Havoc has a pretty good guess at what Tucker’s in for tomorrow morning, and he can’t help but feel the ugliest kind of envy. Tucker may wind up a vegetable, but at least he won’t remember that he used to be human.
Tucker’s voice reaches him as a pathetic whisper: “Please.”
“Goddamn it,” Havoc growls.
And he hauls himself into the wheelchair before he can think too much about it. Fortunately he manages the maneuver without too much trouble, and he doesn’t end up in an undignified heap on the tiles. He’s got Tucker’s undivided attention, his searchlight eyes fixed on his every move, his fingers twitching in either nervousness or anticipation. They’ve both long ago adjusted their vision to the darkness, so even without turning on the bedside lamp, Havoc can see his companion as starkly as a photograph.
“Whoa,” he says faintly. “What the hell did they do to you?”
Up close, Tucker--- what’s left of Tucker--- is even more wretched than Havoc imagined. He used to have red hair, that much Havoc remembers, but it’s frayed and mangy and streaked with grey. He’s wearing prison clothes that so closely resemble Havoc’s hospital pajamas it could be intentional. That’s not their only similarity--- Tucker’s whole body is cousin to Havoc’s shriveled legs, emaciated and weak, the undersides of his forearms painted with bright blue veins that look almost like tree branches. This explains, at least, why his eyes looked so enormous from a distance--- they’re starting out of a face that’s practically a skull, covered only by stretched grey skin.
“Everything they could think of,” Tucker says in answer, and worst of all, he doesn’t elaborate.
“Okay, okay,” Havoc gives an uneasy glance to the door. “Are you a righty or a lefty?”
“Right-handed,” Tucker gives him a crooked half-smile. “How courteous of you to ask.”
“Well, you get one go at this,” Havoc rolls up to the correct side of the bed. “Might as well do it right.”
The leather cuff is almost comically large on Tucker’s scrawny wrist. It forks at the end like a snake’s tongue, allowing two separate buckles for the sake, Havoc supposes, of security. He quickly unclasps both and pulls the cuff open, uncomfortably noticing the bruises that it leaves behind like shadows. Tucker raises his hand as if he were newborn and the gesture were entirely alien. He studies it with the same mix of confusion and reverence--- the bony fingers, the protruding knuckles, the slight tremor that plagues every inch of him.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” Havoc mutters. “You need a magazine? I’ve got some magazines.”
“No, I don’t think you’d have anything to my taste,” Tucker says, his tone oddly proud, since he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t have to bother hiding it anymore.
“Suit yourself,” Havoc says, and he wheels away as far as he can, nosing back into the corner and keeping his back turned out of grudging respect for privacy.
He can’t get away from the sounds, but strangely, he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. It reminds him of being back at the Academy, sharing a room with three other horny teenaged guys, waking up to the slick, familiar sounds of masturbation. They all had a different style--- not that Havoc went out of his way to notice, it was just something that he happened to conclude after a while. Even in the dark and with his back to the room, Havoc knew who was jerking off just from the sounds he made, the rhythm of his hand, the pitch of his breathing. Sometimes he wondered what he sounded like to them.
Sometimes he wondered what Mustang would sound like. He used to sneak up on him if was in the bathroom for too long, but he never managed to catch him at it. Mustang has such strong and calloused hands--- hands that longed to touch Havoc’s feet the way that Havoc touched his---
To distract himself, Havoc turns his chair around, still hiding in the corner but now with a clear view of the opposite bed.
Tucker’s eyes are closed, and he’s stroking his face with the back of his free hand, clearly attempting to conjure an image of a loving caress. It’s a telling detail. His other arm is still pinned against the side of the bed, but by leaning his body to the left, he’s able to brush fingers against thigh, and his fingertips close around the shabby material of his trousers and tug repeatedly. It doesn’t look like he’s hard yet.
He pulls up his shirt with his right hand, massages his belly, teeth clamped hard on his bottom lip, nostrils flaring at every heavy breath. When he finally slips his hand down the front of his pants, his mouth opens with a soft, wet sound that feels like a breath on the back of Havoc’s neck. Through the prison grey, Havoc can see Tucker’s hand moving, working, trying to coax himself into arousal. Judging from the anguished crease of his brow, it doesn’t seem like he’s having much success. His feet twist and pull at the restraints. His hips jerk and shudder up into his touch. But even with tightly closed eyes and practiced breathing, he can’t seem to get past the hospital bed, and he finally collapses back onto himself, exhausted from the effort.
“What’s the matter?” Havoc demands.
Tucker jumps in alarm when he realizes he’s being watched. Mortified, he withdraws his hand and uses it to cover his eyes, his mouth pulling into a hideous artificial grin.
“I was wrong,” he giggles. “She found a way to fuck me again.”
“Life again, huh?”
“I can’t get hard.”
“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” Havoc jeers, rolling over to the bed to gloat. “You’re just half a man.”
“Look who’s talking!” Tucker bares his teeth. “You’re no better than I am! You couldn’t get hard if your life depended on it!”
“I’m dead from the waist down and I can still get hard,” Havoc laughs cruelly. “What’s your excuse?”
“But you can’t feel it, can you?” Tucker challenges, propping himself up on his good elbow. “I can tell from your face. You don’t even know you’re hard if you can’t see it.”
“Guess we’re a pair, huh?” Havoc moves close enough to prop his own elbows on the edge of Tucker’s bed.
With a bitter smile, Tucker takes one of Havoc’s hands in his own, and for a moment, they really are a pair. Just two sets of tired blue eyes, one tied to a chair and the other tied to a bed, their world reduced to a hospital room and the smell of antiseptic. Havoc drops his other hand onto Tucker’s exposed stomach and starts to massage it in small, clockwise circles. Tucker hisses, his grip spasming tight.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna get you hard.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow you won’t feel anything,” Havoc sighs. “And it sucks.”
Tucker sort of laughs, sort of cries, and nods his head. For all of his unwelcome fantasies, Havoc has never touched another man so intimately. Even in his malnourished state, Tucker’s body is unmistakably masculine, the muscles of his abdomen tight and fever-hot, his hips too square to be anything but a man’s. Havoc reaches down inside his trousers and finds his small, soft cock. The moment he gives it the slightest amount of pressure, Tucker suddenly yanks against his restraints, his one free hand clamping down desperately on Havoc’s wrist.
“Don’t hurt me,” he rasps.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Havoc mutters, tempted though he may have been. “Just relax.”
But Tucker doesn’t relax, stays tense and trembling, his eyes locked on Havoc’s face, watching for the moment when his expression of weary resignation changes to one of malicious intent. Then those big pale eyes start to flutter and roll as he grows harder under Havoc’s awkward coaxing, his breathing becoming genuinely faster, the set of his mouth going slack and wanting. At the same moment, they both close their eyes. God only knows who Tucker’s thinking of, but Havoc’s mind is going to a deep, dark place of its own free will.
Mustang arches his back--- “Ah, Havoc, that feels so good---"
Havoc withdraws his hand and Tucker, aroused past the point of coherency, makes a choked sound of dismay. He shuts up when he sees Havoc move to the foot of the bed, fumbling with the restraints on his ankles. One comes off, then the other. As Havoc rolls up to the left side, Tucker’s already reaching for the last cuff.
“No,” Havoc says curtly. “That one stays on.”
Tucker nods in dazed agreement, reacts cooperatively when Havoc reaches up to scoop an arm under his lower back, drawing Tucker off the bed and into his lap. It takes a little rearranging--- Tucker’s left arm stretched behind him, the heel of his hand scraping at the edge of the cuff--- but his right arm has complete freedom of movement and access to all the places that Havoc can still feel, and that’s what counts.
The moment he lands on his lap, Tucker shies upwards in surprise and blurts, “You’re hard!” He notes Havoc’s expression of equal surprise and says, “You didn’t know, did you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Havoc dismisses it grimly. “I can’t feel it.”
Tucker’s eyes are cloudy with lust and fear and probably madness. He reaches down between Havoc’s legs--- Havoc sees the muscles in his arm tense, so he knows that Tucker has taken hold of him--- and he whispers, “Can you feel that?”
“No,” Havoc insists. “And you don’t have to do that.”
“Please,” Tucker begs. “Let me return the favor.”
Let me return the favor.
Those words--- Roy’s words--- and heat burns all the way down along his spine, right down to the Line, and Havoc grabs the back of Tucker’s head, yanking him down so he can crush their mouths together in something that in no way resembles a kiss. He gropes for Tucker’s cock and finds it in the space between them, starts pumping, his mind and heart thundering. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tucker’s shoulder working as he stupidly, pointlessly attempts to reciprocate.
“Can you feel that?” he pants against Havoc’s ear, his own body shuddering.
“Higher,” Havoc growls, grabbing Tucker’s wrist and guiding his hand to his chest. “Above the Line.”
Of course, Tucker doesn’t know exactly where Havoc ends and the dead weight begins, but Havoc did make an indicative slice at his waist earlier, and Tucker has an excellent memory for measurements of the body. He forces his hand up under Havoc’s shirt, finds a nipple and twists, the sensation exploding through Havoc’s brain with unexpected force and clarity. He groans in answer.
It’s killing him, because he doesn’t feel anything. He’d always sort of hoped that it was only his own touch that was lacking, that if he were to be handled by foreign hands--- that maybe, just maybe--- he tries everything he can think of, pulls down hard on Tucker’s hips until his skinny ass should be fucking grinding against his thighs, and God, how can he not feel the very bones of this wretched red-headed skeleton driving against him? It still doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t make any goddamn sense.
All he can do is jerk Tucker off hard, harder than he’s ever been handled in his life, while he squirms and whimpers and drops his open, gasping mouth against Havoc’s shoulder, his hand still pawing clumsily at Havoc’s chest. It’s so, so wrong. This isn’t what he wanted, at all. Suddenly this is the worst idea that Havoc has ever had, and all he wants to do is get Tucker off. He pulls hard on his cock, and Tucker’s teeth snap together on his shoulder as he comes, as orgasm shreds what’s left of his addled, aching mind and he spills himself on Havoc’s useless lap. Aftershocks shake him senseless and then he slumps against Havoc, his right hand curled over Havoc’s heart in a gesture completely devoid of sentiment. His breath is hot and wet and smells like bile, like he hasn’t eaten in days. Havoc remembers where he’s been and why he was there, and suddenly, no punishment is severe enough.
All he can do is hurt him like he promised he wouldn’t, so he locks one arm around his waist, and with his other hand he takes hold of Tucker’s softening cock and starts pumping again.
“Ah,” Tucker hisses, wincing away from him. “Don’t.”
But Havoc continues, wringing his tender, sensitized prick while Tucker claws at his wrist with his weak, weak hand, powerless to stop him. He tugs and tugs at the remaining cuff, as if he could stop Havoc if he had both his hands. He doesn’t realize that would be hopeless. Weeks and weeks of physical therapy have turned Havoc’s upper body into a formidable machine, all of his considerable strength poured into his arms and shoulders. Even with total freedom of his limbs, Tucker wouldn’t stand a chance if Havoc didn’t want him to escape. And he doesn’t.
“You wanna feel?” he snarls. “Feel.”
He doesn’t stop until Tucker’s crying, until the back of his own hand is striped red from Tucker’s fingernails and Tucker’s begging has dissolved into incoherent animal noises of pain. Then he lets go, takes the front of the grey prison shirt, and uses it to wipe up the strands of Tucker’s mess that landed on him.
“All right,” Tucker says softly, humiliated. “You’ve had your fun. Now let me go.”
“All right,” Havoc agrees. “Get back in the bed.”
“I mean,” Tucker says heatedly, and Havoc already knows what he means. “You could let me go.”
“And why should I---?”
“What does it matter to you, where I end up?” Tucker angles his face over Havoc’s shoulder so the former soldier can’t see his expression. “It would be so easy. No one would ever hear from me again. I’m dead, remember?”
“Not yet, you’re not,” Havoc shrugs him off. “Now get back in that bed.”
Tucker sits up, starts to reach for that last remaining cuff--- but before he can even undo one buckle, Havoc has thrown his massive arms around him and hauled him into a bear hug.
“Make one more move towards that,” he threatens. “And I will snap you in half like a goddamn twig.”
“Don’t make promises that you don’t intend to keep,” Tucker scolds sadly.
But that knocked the last of the fight out of his wasted frame, and he clambers dejectedly back onto the bed without further protest. Havoc pauses as he refastens the restraints on his ankles. Tucker’s feet are long and pale, similar in shade but not in shape to the feet that he once adored. He wants to touch them but won’t let himself. It wouldn’t be enough. Instead, he pulls the straps too tight, but Tucker is so fucking skinny that the notches don’t go that far and Havoc has to relax it to a frustratingly comfortable slack.
At the right wrist, he threads the straps into the buckles, but pauses when Tucker gives him a weird, weird fucking smile.
“Don’t you see?” he says dazedly. “I’m going home.”
“You’re going to hell,” Havoc repeats, but this time he punctuates it with a chuck under Tucker’s chin.
He has a little trouble getting back into his bed on his own, but in the end he’s got himself back where he belongs, and he tucks the blanket around his ugly little legs so he can pretend they don’t exist. Tucker is watching him, waits until he’s completely settled down before he wiggles his right wrist free from the cuff that Havoc forgot to fasten. He waves to him like a passenger on a pleasure cruise waving back to the shore.
“Goddamn it, if you so much as look at those other cuffs,” Havoc bristles, readies himself to lunge for him. “I will scream so loud that orderlies are gonna come running from every floor of this fucking building.”
“No, no,” Tucker makes a soothing gesture. “I just had to see if I could.”
He nuzzles his hand back into the cuff, and if he didn’t know it wasn’t, Havoc could easily assume it was locked tight.
“You are crazy,” he shakes his head.
“I just think,” Tucker says distantly. “That it might be nice.”
“What might?”
“Not being able to feel.”
“Bullshit.”
“It will be even nicer,” Tucker continues. “Not being able to remember.”
And Havoc can’t disagree.
- - -
It’s barely dawn when Havoc wakes up to the sound of the orderlies snapping up the brakes on the spare bed. Tucker is already awake but eerily quiet, his eyes much less frightening in the beginning light of day. Havoc sits up to watch him go.
As the bed turns to allow it to fit out the door, it brings them just close enough--- Tucker’s hand breaks free from the open cuff, darts snakelike across the distance, and latches around Havoc’s ankle. Their eyes lock, blue to blue, pain to pain.
“Can you feel that?” Tucker hisses.
“I feel nothing,” Havoc says honestly.
“Damn it, how did he---?” says an orderly, grabbing Tucker’s wrist and binding it back in place.
Tucker keeps his eyes on Havoc until the bed turns too far, and then he’s gone, and Havoc knows he’ll never see him again, that no one will ever see him again and recognize him as the man he used to be.
If only they’d had more time. They could have talked. They could have come to an understanding. The Devil himself for company would be better than no company at all, but the door swings shut and the silence falls and the sun creeps inexorably over the horizon. The room spills over with warm, warm light, settling like a tangible weight over Havoc’s head and chest and shoulders, kissing him with heat right down to the Line.
- - -
Two floors down and one wing over, a wretched red-headed skeleton with holes in his skull rakes his bony fingers against an unforgiving wall, asking it the same question again and again.
“Can you feel that?”
___________end.
Author: colonel_bastard
Characters/Fandom: Jean Havoc, Shou Tucker, mentions of Roy Mustang. Fullmetal Alchemist [manga].
Word Count: 6,260
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Havoc doesn't know who he feels sorrier for: Tucker, or himself.
Warnings: Slash, masturbation, handjob, angst, a smidge of non-con for those who might be sensitive to such things. Spoilers for chapter 40. Teeniest of AUs.
Notes: Written for the Havoc round at fma_fuh_q, and also as something of a dare. When I asked raja815 for suggestions for a good crack pairing for Tucker, she answered that it would be quite fascinating (if one could muddle the canon just a teeny bit) to see Shou interacting with a hospital-bound post-40 Havoc. Once I had the thought, I couldn't let it go. The only way out was this exorcism of a fic. The title is taken from a quote from King Lear: The tempest in my mind doth from my senses take all feeling else.
Havoc wakes from an uneasy sleep to the sound of a heavy collision, metal against wood. In the pale moonlight slivering in through the window, he sees two orderlies have crept into his hospital room. They’ve just shoved the other bed, vacant for three weeks now, back into the corner, the edge of it slamming into the wall with a thump that woke the occupant of its mate.
“What’s going on?” Havoc asks in a harsh whisper, and they hiss in mutual disappointment at his wakefulness.
“It’s nothing,” one of them mutters instinctively. “Go back to sleep.”
But just as the lie leaves his tongue, another orderly appears at the door, pulling another bed, this one on wheels. He drags it into the room by the iron railings at its head, and Havoc notes with distinct interest that the foot of the bed is being steered by a uniformed soldier.
“Nothing, huh?” Havoc needles, dropping the whisper for a normal speaking tone that sounds like a shout at this hour of the night.
While the orderlies answer with synchronized commands to shush, the soldier turns directly to him and says, “Yeah. Nothing. Nothing to see, nothing to know. Go back to sleep.”
The new bed ends up in the same place as the old one. The brakes get snapped into place. As a parting gesture, the first orderly crosses close enough to Havoc to whisper, “Don’t worry, he’ll be gone in the morning.” Then all four men exit, the door closes, and Havoc is alone with his new roommate.
Although he had initially wondered why they went to all the trouble of bringing in a new bed, he quickly realizes why--- this one is outfitted with restraints, its occupant bound at the wrists and ankles. That might also explain the presence of the solider. This guy must be a prisoner of some kind, but why he would be brought into the hospital in the middle of the night and promised to be gone by morning, Havoc has no clue.
So he asks.
“Hey, buddy,” he calls in a soft voice. “Hey.”
The stranger’s chest rises and falls rapidly, short thin breaths like a bird or rabbit. In the shadows Havoc can just make out his eyes, sucking up the light and throwing it back out again, glistening huge and pale and unmistakably awake.
“I said hey,” Havoc pressures, because goddamn if this isn’t the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in weeks. “What is this?”
“This,” comes an unexpectedly thin, reedy voice. “Is my final contribution to science and the State.”
And as the figure lifts up its head and shoulders--- as the moonlight catches on frayed chestnut hair and ice blue eyes--- as the face splits into a grin too wide and too wild--- Havoc realizes who he’s talking to.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” he says stupidly, the first thing that comes into his mouth.
“I am dead,” Shou Tucker agrees. “Officially. Legally. Just not--- technically.”
And he drops his head back against the pillow, apparently exhausted by holding it up for barely thirty seconds. His breathing continues at its quick, queasy pace. Havoc is fumbling to pull himself into a sitting position, his senses sharper than they’ve been in a long time, energy building in his chest, tight and tense.
“Okay, Tucker, what the hell is going on?” he demands. “You’re looking pretty lively for someone who was on the wrong end of a firing squad.”
“Do I know you?” Tucker answers, his head rolling on the pillow so he can peer through the railings of his bed. “You seem so familiar.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Havoc squirms--- Tucker has eyes like a nocturnal animal, eyes that can look right through him.
“You were one of Mustang’s, weren’t you?” Tucker lifts up his head again, almost trembling with the effort. “Yes... you came... to my home. You had something important to tell me...”
The memory is unwelcome and comes too fast, plunging up through Havoc’s brain like a surge of vomit. The bright front lawn--- the Elric brothers, celebrating Fullmetal’s certification--- the little girl--- Havoc was standing barely two yards away from her as he pronounced what he would later realize was her death sentence--- “Your assessment is in two days, Mr. Tucker,”, and both of them smiling at the child--- God, was Tucker thinking of it even then? Was Havoc there the moment he decided? How could he not have sensed the other man’s intentions? He was right there. She was within his reach.
“You bastard,” he whispers. “You should be dead.”
“Yes,” admits Tucker, his heavy skull dropping back down again. “Yes, I’ve often said so myself. But the State--- waste not, want not--- they weren’t finished with me.” He gives Havoc a peculiar sidelong glance. “You’re a dog, like me. You know how they are.”
“Why weren’t they finished with you?” Havoc presses uneasily. “What did they need you for?”
“Sewing life. That’s my name.” Something comes over Tucker, his words speeding up, as if some terrible panic is welling up inside him. “I’m sorry, that was my name. But there were lives. Or there would be lives. An army of lives. Immortal. Their eyes were--- empty. They wanted me to--- sew. Lives. A living army. Sewing life. That was my name. They took my watch. My silver watch, they took it. I have no name. They have no souls.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to forget.”
“You’re crazy,” Havoc observes wearily. “That’s why they dumped you here, isn’t it? You’re completely fucking nuts.”
He had hoped that he might be able to gain something from this encounter, some information that might prove useful--- that might prove him useful--- to his former commanding officer. The hope of it was so raw and unexpected that the realization that it’s false has an almost unbearable sting. Tucker’s execution was staged--- a tantalizing truth, but meaningless without a reason for its existence.
Meaningless.
Useless.
Frustrated beyond endurance, Havoc scrubs at his staring eyes and sits back against his headboard, cursing himself for ever getting his hopes up.
“I couldn’t do it,” Tucker whispers, now to himself. “I’m a failure. Again. I was distracted. All I could think about was her... about bringing her back...”
He pulls helplessly at his restraints, whining, truly, like a dog. Havoc wishes he had a gun, wishes he could put a bullet right between those miserable eyes, and then one between his own---
No, goddamn it!
“No, goddamn it!” Tucker parrots, and Havoc hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Just shut your goddamn mouth,” he grumbles. “I want to sleep. I don’t want to listen to you yap all night.”
“I’ll be gone in the morning,” Tucker says ominously. “I heard them. They don’t think I know, but I know. I know where they’re taking me.”
“Straight to hell,” Havoc snaps, lashing out, helpless.
“It’s an experimental procedure,” the former alchemist shows through in his detached, clinical tone. “A cure for delusional and hysterical patients. A permanent cure. They strike three times. One for each temple. One between the eyes. Right into the frontal lobe. Tap, tap, tap. And you’re gone.”
“You are crazy,” Havoc spits.
Out of nowhere, Tucker’s voice goes deep and ugly, distorted by the basest kind of terror as he suddenly bawls, “Do you understand what they’re going to do to me? They are going to drive spikes into my brain and call it a cure.”
“I don’t care if they cut off your fucking head!” Havoc shouts back.
“I wish they would,” Tucker moans, and the buckles of the restraints jangle as he twists his joints uselessly against them. “I would rather die. I would rather die. They’re going to cut into my head. I won’t be able to feel anything ever again.”
And that is what slices straight down to Havoc’s core, a bright silver needle that darts past all his defenses to hit him right where it hurts. He actually raises a hand to his chest before he can stop himself, clutching at the spasm of pain right at his center, his teeth suddenly grinding against a scream. Day in and day out he won’t let himself think about it. Day in and day out he thinks about anything else, about lifting weights and writing letters and physical therapy and looking to the future. Then this stupid fuck has to come along and remind him all over again.
“I won’t be able to feel anything,” Tucker repeats, as though it’s a revelation.
“I said shut your goddamn mouth!” Havoc barks.
“You don’t understand,” mumbles Tucker self-righteously. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Listen, you little shit,” and Havoc doesn’t mean to tell him, but it comes out anyway. “I understand a hell of a lot more than you do. I’m already there.”
At Tucker’s wide-eyed stare, he simply gestures at his legs, and in a voice that shakes a little more than he intended, he confesses, “Got my spine sliced through. Waist down, I’m gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tucker whispers, and Havoc despises his sincerity so he just answers, “Fuck you.”
For a while, neither one says anything. Tucker’s skinny chest pumps up and down, too fast to be healthy, as though he’s fighting for every breath. His eyes stare up at the ceiling like searchlights. He keeps spasmodically tugging on the heavy leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles, as though he keeps forgetting that he is bound, surprised every time when he can’t raise his hands. Havoc watches him with a sort of morbid delight, takes a satisfaction from his distress that he never thought himself capable of.
Every day it gets harder to fight it, the creeping sense of injustice and anger that starts right at the Line where he loses all feeling and moves steadily up through his spinal cord, the tendrils of hatred just now reaching his brain stem. He wishes so badly that he felt brave, felt strong enough to meet them at the top like he promised he would. He wishes he felt the kind of confidence in himself that they seem to have. He wishes he felt.
But sometimes, all he can feel is anger.
That’s the worst part. Because where can he direct his anger? He has so much of it. He can’t be angry at Mustang, won’t let himself be angry at Mustang. He can’t be angry at Solaris, she’s dead and burned and it was his own damn fault for letting his guard down, anyway. He can’t be angry at his mother--- can’t be angry at the doctors--- can’t be angry at the nurses---
“You don’t know how lucky you were,” Tucker mutters.
And just like that, Havoc’s anger irises in on the bed five feet away from him.
“What did you just say?” he checks, his voice dangerously calm.
“You were lucky,” Tucker clarifies. “Because you didn’t see it coming.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You didn’t have to lie awake all night, counting every breath, every tremor in your leg, every itch in your palms, knowing it would be the last time you felt it.”
“Like that’s supposed to make it better?” Havoc wishes he could get up, wishes he could take two long strides over there and sock him in the mouth. “I never had a chance to say goodbye. It was gone before I knew what I was losing. Don’t try to tell me that’s lucky. That’s hell.”
“I’ll never feel again,” Tucker whines.
“I feel nothing,” Havoc growls.
“What would you change?” Tucker asks, unexpectedly.
“Change about what?”
“If you could go back--- if you knew it was coming,” And those pale, pale eyes glow across the distance between them. “What would you change? If you could feel one last thing... what would it be?”
The answer is so fucking stupid, Havoc is glad that he has the sense to restrain it. Besides, it’s a long story, and he has neither the words nor the inclination to tell it. Tucker doesn’t need to hear about it. Tucker doesn’t deserve to hear about it, about the sweet and rare moments when Mustang would kick off his boots at the end of a long day and allow Havoc to rub his feet. He has small, pale feet, the digits almost flawless except for the smallest toe of each, which have been molded into triangles underneath from years of being swaddled in military boots. The tradition went on long enough for Havoc to learn all about him, how he winced when his heels were squeezed, how he sighed when Havoc rolled his knuckles along the arches. It was only intended to be a comradely gesture, but there were times when Roy would arch his back, his toes curling as he hissed, “Ah, Havoc, that feels so good,” and Havoc’s mind would skate to darker, deeper places of its own free will.
And always, always, Mustang would say, “Now let me return the favor.” Havoc would tense his big, ugly feet inside their boots, and he’d laugh and say, “Don’t worry about me, Boss. I’m fine.” Again and again Roy made the offer, his strong and calloused hands eager to repay the debt of comfort, and again and again Havoc turned him down. He hoped, for his own guilty sake, that Roy would stop offering, but he never did, right up until the end.
Now, when Havoc looks down at the end of the bed, when he sees the blanket tucked around the feet that he knows are there, even if he can’t feel them--- he gets the stupidest sense of regret. It’s stupid. The word ricochets but doesn’t stick. If he could convince himself that it was a waste of time, then he might be able to let it go, but the endless isolation of the hospital is having the opposite effect. Every passing day makes that goddamn foot massage into a greater paradise, makes his condition that much more unbearable, makes the Fates that much crueler.
Stupid stupid stupid.
“I dunno,” he huffs defensively, answering Tucker at last. “I’d probably jerk off one last time.”
“Oh,” Tucker murmurs, almost disappointed. “Oh. I suppose... I suppose that hadn’t even occurred to me.”
“Really.”
“I mean I hadn’t considered that, in your condition, you wouldn’t be able to... anyway.”
“Anyway?”
“Anyway it’s pointless, isn’t it?” Tucker snaps. “They’ve got me--- I’m--- well, look at me.”
He tugs noisily on his restraints. The leather creaks and the buckles jangle like coins in a pocket. Havoc sneers in amusement.
“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“She is,” Tucker agrees, and to Havoc’s surprise, his laughter is genuine. “She’s managed to fuck me one last time. I’m impressed with her tenacity.”
“You think life’s out to get you, huh?”
“Don’t you?” Tucker gives him a pointed glance. “Look at yourself. How could you not think that you’re somebody’s punching bag?”
After a pause, Havoc says softly, “I dunno, man. Maybe you’re right.”
Because even though Tucker is a monster--- even though Tucker deserves every awful thing that will ever happen to him--- what did Havoc ever do to deserve this?
“Now you’ve got me thinking about it,” Tucker chuckles weakly.
“About what?” Havoc’s mind is elsewhere.
“About... you know,” and Tucker gives a nervous cough. “One last time.”
Havoc scratches idly at the back of his neck. “Oh. That.”
“I couldn’t help but notice the... chair... next to your bed.” Tucker’s eyes are quickly growing wider, as his anxiety creeps up on him. “Can you use it?”
The wheelchair is relatively new. They’ve been encouraging him to practice getting in and out of it on his own, preparing him for a world without burly orderlies to lug his useless ass from place to place. Havoc has yet to try it without one of those very orderlies nearby to help him if he ends up on the floor. Of course, he has yet to end up on the floor at all, but the odds are impressive that the first time he tried it alone would be the first time he wiped out.
“Why should I?” he mutters, already considering it.
“As a gesture of goodwill towards your fellow man,” Tucker wheedles, then adds in all seriousness, “Your fellow punching bag.”
“You’re no punching bag,” Havoc snorts.
“Your fellow dog, then,” Tucker persists. “Dumped at the pound by a military that no longer wants us.”
“You’re not going to give up, are you?”
“I’ve got one chance. Tomorrow morning it’s all over,” In a depressingly self-aware voice, Tucker admits, “I have nothing else left.”
And God, doesn’t Havoc know exactly what that feels like, to realize that his world is contained within the railings of his hospital bed. He shudders to think that Tucker’s world is even smaller--- one bed, one night, and no future.
He throws aside his blanket and takes a good hard look at what’s left of himself. His legs have already grown thinner, wasting away from misuse. His feet look strange and deformed, almost abstract, they’re so far away from him. At times like this, he wishes he’d lost the legs entirely. It would have to be better than seeing them every day and remembering what he used to be.
Although the details are vague, Havoc has a pretty good guess at what Tucker’s in for tomorrow morning, and he can’t help but feel the ugliest kind of envy. Tucker may wind up a vegetable, but at least he won’t remember that he used to be human.
Tucker’s voice reaches him as a pathetic whisper: “Please.”
“Goddamn it,” Havoc growls.
And he hauls himself into the wheelchair before he can think too much about it. Fortunately he manages the maneuver without too much trouble, and he doesn’t end up in an undignified heap on the tiles. He’s got Tucker’s undivided attention, his searchlight eyes fixed on his every move, his fingers twitching in either nervousness or anticipation. They’ve both long ago adjusted their vision to the darkness, so even without turning on the bedside lamp, Havoc can see his companion as starkly as a photograph.
“Whoa,” he says faintly. “What the hell did they do to you?”
Up close, Tucker--- what’s left of Tucker--- is even more wretched than Havoc imagined. He used to have red hair, that much Havoc remembers, but it’s frayed and mangy and streaked with grey. He’s wearing prison clothes that so closely resemble Havoc’s hospital pajamas it could be intentional. That’s not their only similarity--- Tucker’s whole body is cousin to Havoc’s shriveled legs, emaciated and weak, the undersides of his forearms painted with bright blue veins that look almost like tree branches. This explains, at least, why his eyes looked so enormous from a distance--- they’re starting out of a face that’s practically a skull, covered only by stretched grey skin.
“Everything they could think of,” Tucker says in answer, and worst of all, he doesn’t elaborate.
“Okay, okay,” Havoc gives an uneasy glance to the door. “Are you a righty or a lefty?”
“Right-handed,” Tucker gives him a crooked half-smile. “How courteous of you to ask.”
“Well, you get one go at this,” Havoc rolls up to the correct side of the bed. “Might as well do it right.”
The leather cuff is almost comically large on Tucker’s scrawny wrist. It forks at the end like a snake’s tongue, allowing two separate buckles for the sake, Havoc supposes, of security. He quickly unclasps both and pulls the cuff open, uncomfortably noticing the bruises that it leaves behind like shadows. Tucker raises his hand as if he were newborn and the gesture were entirely alien. He studies it with the same mix of confusion and reverence--- the bony fingers, the protruding knuckles, the slight tremor that plagues every inch of him.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” Havoc mutters. “You need a magazine? I’ve got some magazines.”
“No, I don’t think you’d have anything to my taste,” Tucker says, his tone oddly proud, since he’s finally reached the point where he doesn’t have to bother hiding it anymore.
“Suit yourself,” Havoc says, and he wheels away as far as he can, nosing back into the corner and keeping his back turned out of grudging respect for privacy.
He can’t get away from the sounds, but strangely, he doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. It reminds him of being back at the Academy, sharing a room with three other horny teenaged guys, waking up to the slick, familiar sounds of masturbation. They all had a different style--- not that Havoc went out of his way to notice, it was just something that he happened to conclude after a while. Even in the dark and with his back to the room, Havoc knew who was jerking off just from the sounds he made, the rhythm of his hand, the pitch of his breathing. Sometimes he wondered what he sounded like to them.
Sometimes he wondered what Mustang would sound like. He used to sneak up on him if was in the bathroom for too long, but he never managed to catch him at it. Mustang has such strong and calloused hands--- hands that longed to touch Havoc’s feet the way that Havoc touched his---
To distract himself, Havoc turns his chair around, still hiding in the corner but now with a clear view of the opposite bed.
Tucker’s eyes are closed, and he’s stroking his face with the back of his free hand, clearly attempting to conjure an image of a loving caress. It’s a telling detail. His other arm is still pinned against the side of the bed, but by leaning his body to the left, he’s able to brush fingers against thigh, and his fingertips close around the shabby material of his trousers and tug repeatedly. It doesn’t look like he’s hard yet.
He pulls up his shirt with his right hand, massages his belly, teeth clamped hard on his bottom lip, nostrils flaring at every heavy breath. When he finally slips his hand down the front of his pants, his mouth opens with a soft, wet sound that feels like a breath on the back of Havoc’s neck. Through the prison grey, Havoc can see Tucker’s hand moving, working, trying to coax himself into arousal. Judging from the anguished crease of his brow, it doesn’t seem like he’s having much success. His feet twist and pull at the restraints. His hips jerk and shudder up into his touch. But even with tightly closed eyes and practiced breathing, he can’t seem to get past the hospital bed, and he finally collapses back onto himself, exhausted from the effort.
“What’s the matter?” Havoc demands.
Tucker jumps in alarm when he realizes he’s being watched. Mortified, he withdraws his hand and uses it to cover his eyes, his mouth pulling into a hideous artificial grin.
“I was wrong,” he giggles. “She found a way to fuck me again.”
“Life again, huh?”
“I can’t get hard.”
“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” Havoc jeers, rolling over to the bed to gloat. “You’re just half a man.”
“Look who’s talking!” Tucker bares his teeth. “You’re no better than I am! You couldn’t get hard if your life depended on it!”
“I’m dead from the waist down and I can still get hard,” Havoc laughs cruelly. “What’s your excuse?”
“But you can’t feel it, can you?” Tucker challenges, propping himself up on his good elbow. “I can tell from your face. You don’t even know you’re hard if you can’t see it.”
“Guess we’re a pair, huh?” Havoc moves close enough to prop his own elbows on the edge of Tucker’s bed.
With a bitter smile, Tucker takes one of Havoc’s hands in his own, and for a moment, they really are a pair. Just two sets of tired blue eyes, one tied to a chair and the other tied to a bed, their world reduced to a hospital room and the smell of antiseptic. Havoc drops his other hand onto Tucker’s exposed stomach and starts to massage it in small, clockwise circles. Tucker hisses, his grip spasming tight.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna get you hard.”
“Why?”
“Because tomorrow you won’t feel anything,” Havoc sighs. “And it sucks.”
Tucker sort of laughs, sort of cries, and nods his head. For all of his unwelcome fantasies, Havoc has never touched another man so intimately. Even in his malnourished state, Tucker’s body is unmistakably masculine, the muscles of his abdomen tight and fever-hot, his hips too square to be anything but a man’s. Havoc reaches down inside his trousers and finds his small, soft cock. The moment he gives it the slightest amount of pressure, Tucker suddenly yanks against his restraints, his one free hand clamping down desperately on Havoc’s wrist.
“Don’t hurt me,” he rasps.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Havoc mutters, tempted though he may have been. “Just relax.”
But Tucker doesn’t relax, stays tense and trembling, his eyes locked on Havoc’s face, watching for the moment when his expression of weary resignation changes to one of malicious intent. Then those big pale eyes start to flutter and roll as he grows harder under Havoc’s awkward coaxing, his breathing becoming genuinely faster, the set of his mouth going slack and wanting. At the same moment, they both close their eyes. God only knows who Tucker’s thinking of, but Havoc’s mind is going to a deep, dark place of its own free will.
Mustang arches his back--- “Ah, Havoc, that feels so good---"
Havoc withdraws his hand and Tucker, aroused past the point of coherency, makes a choked sound of dismay. He shuts up when he sees Havoc move to the foot of the bed, fumbling with the restraints on his ankles. One comes off, then the other. As Havoc rolls up to the left side, Tucker’s already reaching for the last cuff.
“No,” Havoc says curtly. “That one stays on.”
Tucker nods in dazed agreement, reacts cooperatively when Havoc reaches up to scoop an arm under his lower back, drawing Tucker off the bed and into his lap. It takes a little rearranging--- Tucker’s left arm stretched behind him, the heel of his hand scraping at the edge of the cuff--- but his right arm has complete freedom of movement and access to all the places that Havoc can still feel, and that’s what counts.
The moment he lands on his lap, Tucker shies upwards in surprise and blurts, “You’re hard!” He notes Havoc’s expression of equal surprise and says, “You didn’t know, did you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Havoc dismisses it grimly. “I can’t feel it.”
Tucker’s eyes are cloudy with lust and fear and probably madness. He reaches down between Havoc’s legs--- Havoc sees the muscles in his arm tense, so he knows that Tucker has taken hold of him--- and he whispers, “Can you feel that?”
“No,” Havoc insists. “And you don’t have to do that.”
“Please,” Tucker begs. “Let me return the favor.”
Let me return the favor.
Those words--- Roy’s words--- and heat burns all the way down along his spine, right down to the Line, and Havoc grabs the back of Tucker’s head, yanking him down so he can crush their mouths together in something that in no way resembles a kiss. He gropes for Tucker’s cock and finds it in the space between them, starts pumping, his mind and heart thundering. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Tucker’s shoulder working as he stupidly, pointlessly attempts to reciprocate.
“Can you feel that?” he pants against Havoc’s ear, his own body shuddering.
“Higher,” Havoc growls, grabbing Tucker’s wrist and guiding his hand to his chest. “Above the Line.”
Of course, Tucker doesn’t know exactly where Havoc ends and the dead weight begins, but Havoc did make an indicative slice at his waist earlier, and Tucker has an excellent memory for measurements of the body. He forces his hand up under Havoc’s shirt, finds a nipple and twists, the sensation exploding through Havoc’s brain with unexpected force and clarity. He groans in answer.
It’s killing him, because he doesn’t feel anything. He’d always sort of hoped that it was only his own touch that was lacking, that if he were to be handled by foreign hands--- that maybe, just maybe--- he tries everything he can think of, pulls down hard on Tucker’s hips until his skinny ass should be fucking grinding against his thighs, and God, how can he not feel the very bones of this wretched red-headed skeleton driving against him? It still doesn’t make any sense, it doesn’t make any goddamn sense.
All he can do is jerk Tucker off hard, harder than he’s ever been handled in his life, while he squirms and whimpers and drops his open, gasping mouth against Havoc’s shoulder, his hand still pawing clumsily at Havoc’s chest. It’s so, so wrong. This isn’t what he wanted, at all. Suddenly this is the worst idea that Havoc has ever had, and all he wants to do is get Tucker off. He pulls hard on his cock, and Tucker’s teeth snap together on his shoulder as he comes, as orgasm shreds what’s left of his addled, aching mind and he spills himself on Havoc’s useless lap. Aftershocks shake him senseless and then he slumps against Havoc, his right hand curled over Havoc’s heart in a gesture completely devoid of sentiment. His breath is hot and wet and smells like bile, like he hasn’t eaten in days. Havoc remembers where he’s been and why he was there, and suddenly, no punishment is severe enough.
All he can do is hurt him like he promised he wouldn’t, so he locks one arm around his waist, and with his other hand he takes hold of Tucker’s softening cock and starts pumping again.
“Ah,” Tucker hisses, wincing away from him. “Don’t.”
But Havoc continues, wringing his tender, sensitized prick while Tucker claws at his wrist with his weak, weak hand, powerless to stop him. He tugs and tugs at the remaining cuff, as if he could stop Havoc if he had both his hands. He doesn’t realize that would be hopeless. Weeks and weeks of physical therapy have turned Havoc’s upper body into a formidable machine, all of his considerable strength poured into his arms and shoulders. Even with total freedom of his limbs, Tucker wouldn’t stand a chance if Havoc didn’t want him to escape. And he doesn’t.
“You wanna feel?” he snarls. “Feel.”
He doesn’t stop until Tucker’s crying, until the back of his own hand is striped red from Tucker’s fingernails and Tucker’s begging has dissolved into incoherent animal noises of pain. Then he lets go, takes the front of the grey prison shirt, and uses it to wipe up the strands of Tucker’s mess that landed on him.
“All right,” Tucker says softly, humiliated. “You’ve had your fun. Now let me go.”
“All right,” Havoc agrees. “Get back in the bed.”
“I mean,” Tucker says heatedly, and Havoc already knows what he means. “You could let me go.”
“And why should I---?”
“What does it matter to you, where I end up?” Tucker angles his face over Havoc’s shoulder so the former soldier can’t see his expression. “It would be so easy. No one would ever hear from me again. I’m dead, remember?”
“Not yet, you’re not,” Havoc shrugs him off. “Now get back in that bed.”
Tucker sits up, starts to reach for that last remaining cuff--- but before he can even undo one buckle, Havoc has thrown his massive arms around him and hauled him into a bear hug.
“Make one more move towards that,” he threatens. “And I will snap you in half like a goddamn twig.”
“Don’t make promises that you don’t intend to keep,” Tucker scolds sadly.
But that knocked the last of the fight out of his wasted frame, and he clambers dejectedly back onto the bed without further protest. Havoc pauses as he refastens the restraints on his ankles. Tucker’s feet are long and pale, similar in shade but not in shape to the feet that he once adored. He wants to touch them but won’t let himself. It wouldn’t be enough. Instead, he pulls the straps too tight, but Tucker is so fucking skinny that the notches don’t go that far and Havoc has to relax it to a frustratingly comfortable slack.
At the right wrist, he threads the straps into the buckles, but pauses when Tucker gives him a weird, weird fucking smile.
“Don’t you see?” he says dazedly. “I’m going home.”
“You’re going to hell,” Havoc repeats, but this time he punctuates it with a chuck under Tucker’s chin.
He has a little trouble getting back into his bed on his own, but in the end he’s got himself back where he belongs, and he tucks the blanket around his ugly little legs so he can pretend they don’t exist. Tucker is watching him, waits until he’s completely settled down before he wiggles his right wrist free from the cuff that Havoc forgot to fasten. He waves to him like a passenger on a pleasure cruise waving back to the shore.
“Goddamn it, if you so much as look at those other cuffs,” Havoc bristles, readies himself to lunge for him. “I will scream so loud that orderlies are gonna come running from every floor of this fucking building.”
“No, no,” Tucker makes a soothing gesture. “I just had to see if I could.”
He nuzzles his hand back into the cuff, and if he didn’t know it wasn’t, Havoc could easily assume it was locked tight.
“You are crazy,” he shakes his head.
“I just think,” Tucker says distantly. “That it might be nice.”
“What might?”
“Not being able to feel.”
“Bullshit.”
“It will be even nicer,” Tucker continues. “Not being able to remember.”
And Havoc can’t disagree.
- - -
It’s barely dawn when Havoc wakes up to the sound of the orderlies snapping up the brakes on the spare bed. Tucker is already awake but eerily quiet, his eyes much less frightening in the beginning light of day. Havoc sits up to watch him go.
As the bed turns to allow it to fit out the door, it brings them just close enough--- Tucker’s hand breaks free from the open cuff, darts snakelike across the distance, and latches around Havoc’s ankle. Their eyes lock, blue to blue, pain to pain.
“Can you feel that?” Tucker hisses.
“I feel nothing,” Havoc says honestly.
“Damn it, how did he---?” says an orderly, grabbing Tucker’s wrist and binding it back in place.
Tucker keeps his eyes on Havoc until the bed turns too far, and then he’s gone, and Havoc knows he’ll never see him again, that no one will ever see him again and recognize him as the man he used to be.
If only they’d had more time. They could have talked. They could have come to an understanding. The Devil himself for company would be better than no company at all, but the door swings shut and the silence falls and the sun creeps inexorably over the horizon. The room spills over with warm, warm light, settling like a tangible weight over Havoc’s head and chest and shoulders, kissing him with heat right down to the Line.
- - -
Two floors down and one wing over, a wretched red-headed skeleton with holes in his skull rakes his bony fingers against an unforgiving wall, asking it the same question again and again.
“Can you feel that?”
___________end.